Is it just me, or is it nearly impossible to find books about older women in lesbian fiction and romance? And I don’t mean 40-somethings, either. I’m talking about older with a capital OLD.
It ticks me off that those of us who are over 60 are invisible within the culture we helped to build. So, I write stories about older lesbians who are still raising hell and living out loud. I imagine this will not win me a spot on The New York Times Best Seller List.
I’ve been writing since I scratched out my first essay in 1965. I won a prize for it—a rosary. Every young girl’s dream. But the experience taught me the power of the pen (or St. Joseph No. 2 pencil in this case). Throughout my life I’ve left a trail of poems, short stories, rants and ramblings in my wake—some published, most not.
In past lives I’ve been an artist, designer, musician, and karate student. I survived an Italian grandmother and 12 years of Catholic school. Coming out in the 70s fashioned me into a lifelong lesbian feminist with a fondness for flannel shirts and womyn’s music. (Meg Christian, are you there?) Now, I’m a retired copywriter with time to indulge my passion for prose.
These days I make my home on a lovely ten-acre plot nestled in the lush, rolling mountains of central Pennsylvania that my wife and I share with two rotten cats, a small flock of spoiled hens, and a herd of white-tailed deer hell-bent on devouring the landscaping.
When I’m not writing I’m usually puttering around the house working on projects better suited to a much younger version of myself.
I love good books, good coffee, and watching the fireflies on warm summer nights.
I will not go gentle into that good night.