What will be left?

That one time I was the youngest person at the writing conference

I should have guessed I would be one of the youngest attendees, considering the ages of the headline speakers (68, 68, and 75 years old). A tiny part of me feels like a child placed at the grown-up table when I take my seat among women with silver hair.

And yet—there’s something wildly comforting to me about seeing older women living life to the fullest. When I witness women in their 60’s and 70’s investing in themselves, flying across the country to attend a writing conference, pursuing events and creative work that lights them up, it makes me think I can, and will, do the same some day. What really strikes me, though, is how many women I speak to who simply write … for fun. 

The first day, I sit next to a woman named Cindy. She is 75 years old, petite, wearing wine-colored lipstick and teal blue glasses. I ask her about writing—what do you write? what are you working on?—and she tells me she writes a little bit of everything. She’s part of a writing group, eight people total, and once a month they meet up and do writing prompts together. 

“I also wrote a memoir several years ago,” she tells me, “But when it was done, I realized I received all the healing I needed, and I never bothered trying to publish it.”

She says this matter-of-factly, like it’s no big deal that she wrote an entire book that is sitting in her desk drawer collecting dust.

We talk more about writing, about our hopes and dreams, and I ask a few questions about her writing group. She then recaps a conversation she had earlier with Molly, another woman at our table, who, if I had to guess, is also in her 70’s. 

“Get this,” she says with a twinkle in her eye, “Molly told me that her writing group recently tried writing erotica—from the perspective of a male, can you believe that?!”

My eyes widen. 

“Wow,” I say, unsure how to respond.

“Yeah,” she laughs, “Molly said it was hysterical. I’m totally going to bring that idea to my writing group next time we meet.” 

Another woman at our table is writing a collection of letters to her son, who is currently in rehab. She herself is 12 years sober. I hear bits and pieces throughout the day of what everyone is working on, and I can’t help but notice there is zero talk of growing platforms. None. There is no talk of success or failure or metrics or growing email lists. Every conversation I have with every woman is strictly about the craft, the devotion, the passion for writing. We talk about the joy, the adventure, the fulfillment of getting a story down on paper and making sense of the world. Over and over I think to myself: these are my people. This is who I am. This is who I want to be. 

The whole experience makes me think of what I want for my own life. For my own second act. When all of this fades, as it inevitably will, when the likes and comments vanish, when Coffee + Crumbs is nothing but a memory, when I am 75 years old, what will be left? 

God, please, let it be me. A blank page. And my undying love for all of it.