mature singles

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Musing about relationships between the well-matured. Well, no change there then. And a quick catch-up.

I’m in the throes of creating a blogger who actually makes money from blogging – what a novel idea – and it did remind me I’ve not updated here for a goodish while. Oops. Between running holiday rentals upstairs through a growing minefield of official Spanish bureaucracy, wondering whether I’ll be getting a sixth foster dog (not six at once! I’m currently left with one, the ubiquitous Kim), still teaching English in twenty-two countries around the world, and idly planning huge changes for the next ten years while knowing everything could go tits up tomorrow, I’ve been busy. Life in Spain. Love it. 

 I’ve also been writing, of course, always, my happy place. Every book ever written has, or in my opinion should have, at least ten percent experience to be credible, a lot of research to be worth reading, and a massive dollop of imagination to be enjoyable. As a writer one does sometimes get bogged down in the research, or fall short on the imagination. Still, that’s why the title is about musing, because there is a lot needed for the current book. The challenge is not only the plot, and the setting, and a satisfactory conclusion, but drawing an angry obsessive man and a vague stubborn woman beyond social necessity, when life throws them together (inevitably, murder is the catalyst) into something that readers will root for – a non-relationship that works. Watch this space. 

Yup, non-relationship. After all these years of banging on about mature singles getting together. Thing is I’m one of the ever-increasing demographic of women who face they like men but not enough to live with one. Likely to live out my life solo, not generally too dismayed about it. IF the perfect man happened along, AND thought I was the perfect woman, yin to his yang, that would be very interesting indeed but the odds are pretty much a million to one. I am however enduringly fascinated by the way people, even the most extraordinarily mismatched people, can create working relationships, however unconventional some are, from a shared past which has changed its parameters, or from scratch. I’ve had a few. Some could have gone fulltime – decided against, instead wove what could have been into a book. Write what you know. But readers like happy endings, right? So the rest of this very long blog is all about musing and unless you’re older and single and also musing about the future you can go now, and thanks for popping by, take care xx 

Living in a largely ex-pat community made up of couples and singles, one becomes very aware that marriages which change after years of togetherness – such as retirement, planned early or involuntary, throwing couples together full-time – have new challenges, even for those who have decades together, and still have the rest of the road to travel. They are used to each other, certainly. Used to being exasperated by each other, too, but know what to expect, recognise each other’s moods and impulses, know how to irritate the hell out of each other but also how to make peace again. 

Starting over after fifty, after sixty, with someone new who is more than halfway through life, is way harder than it was thirty years earlier even though more people are marrying in the autumn of their lives than has ever happened before. Not for the same reasons – no babies, for starters, because we’re not talking about May December marriages, we’re talking both being at the very least September, sometimes October, often later. Well, there is ONE reason shared with May / December marriages. Money is usually a factor. None of our autumn lovers have vast amounts of it, as a rule. More a case of sharing resources, deciding which nest to sell and which to share. Shared pensions, for the already retired, will stretch a little further than one each. There’s company, too. Family has shrunk, and former offspring are busy with their own lives. Friends have moved or died or changed beyond what is comfortable. Health and mobility might start becoming an issue and unlucky the couple both having issues at the same time – normally they’ll be able to support each other through that. Take turns, almost. 

Don’t get me wrong, these are not the reasons foremost in the autumnal couple’s mind (apart from those determined to marry for financial security), but they are factors which simply don’t occur to spring couples. When you are alone, at any age, and meet someone congenial who fancies you, at any age, the rush is the rush. The sap rises, you are delighted, you bounce as you walk, your eyes brighten and the world is bathed in sudden colour. But new autumnal couples (whether alone for a while or suddenly facing life alone after years in relationships which have ended) find the biggest issue they have to face is compromise. LOTS of compromise. On so very many levels! He likes going to bed straight after the news, she is happiest nodding off in front of the telly and only heading to bed after waking up to go to the loo at two in the morning – or the other way round. Established couples take that in their stride as it evolves over the years. New couples have to get used to it. 

 As to what telly they both like to watch – don’t even go there. Control of the remote is one of the perks of being single. 

They both snore, that’s pretty much a given after middle age, so it’s a race to get to sleep first or lie awake resenting the winner. If the shared nest has two rooms, phew. Otherwise – an issue, until deafness comes to the rescue.

One of them may drink more, much more, than the other. One may even smoke, although that’s rarer the older both are. Chances are rare both are on the same page re social life, too. Each other’s friends …

Food? You practically need two fridges, and half the time would rather be eating different meals, or cooked different ways. He likes his steak blue and she likes hers indistinguishable from shoe leather. She likes long walks along the beach, he’s far happier pottering in the garden or little building projects – or, always in these examples, the other way round. She may have a cat and he a dog and they, too, have to share the new set up in uneasy détente. Some couples do get together simply to stave off a lonely future pinching pennies, on the sensible foundation of shared friends, shared habits, similar lifestyles, and they make it work, but make no mistake, tolerance, compromise, and more compromise, is their glue no matter how similar they are. 

 Of course this applies to friends too, we’ve all found that, there are subjects that we both accept are off the table even with friends who go back forever, like politics, or religion, or the books they like and you thought were trite, or pretentious, or so worthy as to be unbearably depressing. Still, you can restrict your time with friends, enjoy their company very much within those careful parameters, then go your separate ways until arranging the next meeting.

Older types who choose to extend this into going home together and considerately picking their way through the potential minefields 24/7 for the rest of their lives – not as easy as you’d think. The young have make-up sex to smooth over many of the cracks. The older you get, the less of a patch sex offers. For starters, half the time you’re having to stop to massage unexpected agonising cramps, or there are false starts, plus it simply doesn’t happen as often. Affection, hugs, shoulder rubs, light kisses, can become issues of their own. To some they are only ever a prelude to seduction so why bother if seduction isn’t on the table. When you’ve lived alone for a while, a spontaneous hug out of the blue from your new companion is delightful but why? What’s the agenda? What do you want? So the happiest couples are those who share displays of affection constantly, without agenda, but that’s a new habit to be built and maintained and when both have been single a while, it doesn’t come effortlessly. Yet to give up on something pretty good because they don’t tick every box . . . there’s a trend towards permanent relationships which aren’t full-time, not even romantic, but a bit more than friendship. 

 I wrote a series of whodunits (Grasshopper Lawns, links in the side bar, they’re absolutely brilliant, try one  😊) featuring four older protagonists who did achieve all the compromises necessary for ongoing unconventional relationships, and I have left them to get on with their lives before the inevitable onset of age presents challenges – failing hearing, failing eyesight, losing faculties, the rising inevitability of health issues. Nobody enjoys perfect health forever. They should make it, they’ve got each other for strong support and will cope. My other books have explored other characters getting close, soppy old romantic that I am. But now I’m thinking through a different, mismatched, sort of relationship, one that is non-romantic yet works, and it takes a lot of musing.  

Still here? GREAT! Any thoughts on the topic in the comments would be awesome! 

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Generation Jones singles, and men who lie about their height, and A Team

I actually don’t usually mind when single men lie about their height. It’s a handy short-cut to their level of self-deception because we Generation Jones singles, like it or not, have shrunk at least a little bit. Height isn’t something one measures very often. At school, when they did, I was 5’ 9” which is (grabs calculator) 1.75m. Most of us remember our height in feet and inches. I’m still taller than most of my buddies but since they’re mostly Generation Jones too, reality is I’d probably have to breathe in and stand tall to top 5’ 8” these days.   I do look for men describing themselves as around 6’ and do expect them to be shorter than that but still taller than me. If he is significantly closer to my height he’s – how to put this – a wishful thinker at best. Or genuinely delusional. Or thinks no-one will notice. Riiiiight.  The short cut is to work out which, but at least you know instantly there’s something to work out.

I don’t actually hang around the singles websites now much, because we well-matured singles of this generation are past the last flush of youth and there’s a growing tendency to assess each other as future carers, or a financial lifeboat. The fun new relationship stuff of walking miles along the beach, dropping everything for a spontaneous weekend away in a quirky little B&B, or going to an all-night party, is definitely not going to be on the table much longer.  So we look for companions who can hear, and follow the thread of a conversation, and can be presented to friends in the hope they won’t drink themselves into a stupor, or insist on airing their pungent views on the tightrope subjects of politics, religion, and sex, or, for that matter, fall asleep.  The bar is not as high as it was. Nowadays a Catch has a good pension and some dosh in the bank, and if he insists on using his camper for holidays, well, at least there’ll be others at the campsites to talk to, right?  A REAL catch makes you quiver and laugh and doesn’t bang on about his departed former mate (deceased or bolted) and has a healthy circle of likeable friends and, this is really important, finds those things in you too. They’re nearly as rare as unicorns on the free websites but – inshallah.  (I’m not Muslim but tell me any word that sums that up better.)   

When I do look, and bear in mind I’m in Spain, so the local English-speaking pool is nearly as limited as my colloquial Spanish, the same faces crop up again, and again, and again. I’ve met a few of them (not ONE is the height he says he is), talked to most. There’s one who has fallen head over heels in instant love at least five times so far, and is repeatedly shocked and disillusioned when the evocative profile is flawed in reality. One is in ongoing pursuit of a fast-moving wealthy widow so you’ll need to be either a lot slower or wealthier to ever be more than the hedged bet he’s online to find. One alternates months at a time between UK and Spain but don’t imagine you’ll be journeying to the UK with him any time soon, his wife may not like Spain but she’s not about to be unseated on her home ground. One says he is open to all ages so long as you look forty, tops, and/or can rock a bikini. (No he doesn’t, and no he couldn’t). One is an absolute cracker but in such dire financial circumstances he needs a miracle. One clings like a leech and bombards you with messages (but never responds to anything you say in your replies, it’s all about him) – never met him, but when I blocked him he created a new profile to bombard me again.

I got into fostering unwanted dogs recently and last night when I looked at the singles website I was suddenly struck by the similarities. In theory all both want is friendly attention, regular meals, outings, and some affection but for the often-abandoned that will never be enough. They can’t help themselves, they cross lines which should not be crossed and are doomed to be returned to the websites again and again and again, always wanting more than can ever be offered.

And yes I’m a long-time single as well, so yes that applies to me too, but I do, thanks be, have a Team – men friends who make me laugh, a few who are truly interesting, the priceless ones who can do stuff for the house and car, and those always up for a drink and chat. Some are single, some in part-time relationships (usually long-distance ones) and some married (importantly, I like their wives and their wives like and trust me) so a bloke of my own seems hardly worth the on-tap benefits. We babyboomers who fall into Generation Jones (1954 to 1965) (couple of theories for the name and Jones was once a popular drug, but for my money we’re the competitive ones who kept up with the Joneses) know that any guy we hang out with has to be a social asset . . .

Team structure has changed a fair bit over the thirty years I’ve maintained one but the essentials are the same. A good team is all blokes (female friends are worth their weight in gold but must set up their own teams to stay that way) – one who can fix anything in the house, one who can fix your car, one who thinks you’re wonderful, one who makes you feel sleek, (no, not the same thing, think about it) and one who turns the world sparkly whenever he’s around, which is never often enough. At least two confidantes you can discuss anything with, ideally at any time. and get you laughing – gay friends are priceless, and in fact a team can fluctuate around the dozen mark if none of them are full-time. The downside of a full-time friend, be aware, is that you get possessive about each other over a long period and when they let you down, even by falling in love elsewhere, it’s almost more devastating than a breakup. That’s also the downside of recruiting from the websites among the lonely unwanted, because they’ve all got issues. Be a good team manager, do no harm  . . .

 I wrote a book about this under another name while I was romping joyfully and less cynically through my Indian summer, Looking For Mr Will Do Nicely. Still plenty of fish out there but now their cry is a little more ‘look after me’. But will you look after me when I’m less fabulous? Hmmm?

Or you could foster a dog. Okay you might get bitten but someone in your Team will take you for stitches and shots. Even the nicest of them could be less sympathetic if you got mauled by a Single, knowing what you now know, which should be better. 

Ever researching on your behalf, albeit not as often as yore.

 

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Only the lonely – end of an era, and a thank you. #CS

CS – a website connecting singles to other singles – is close to unique in having a lively blogging and forums facility.  At the time I joined, around five years ago, it was international, multi-cultural and interdenominational, and the majority of the members were fairly careful not to step too heavily on the toes of others of different cultures and beliefs in the lively interaction.

conversing

At its best the CS blogs were a kind of Cheers, where everyone knew your name, long term members knew  which blogs would be fun to banter on and which should be avoided (a few nutters grumbled about cliques) and people occasionally met up – I met around a dozen different members, over the five years, and enjoyed online friendships with people I would never meet, would never have met in any other way.

Joining CS changed my life. I said in a lifestyle interview that I got belatedly brave. When I joined I had become a recluse living behind my computer in Scotland, writing books and hoping if I left the real world alone it would return the favour. I only joined to ask single people questions because I needed answers for my books:  the thought of going out and asking real people was unthinkable.

Now I live in Spain, still writing books in between teaching English as a second language and opening my very quirky old house up to paying guests, interacting with others every day, and all of that can be directly traced back to joining the website five years ago.

So CS was pretty special to me, and it was fun. Most of the bloggers were comfortable being single, sometimes drifting in and out of relationships while they waited without anxiety for The One, or sitting shiva for the One who had been lost, or enjoying the banter because for whatever reason real life couldn’t offer the same kind of sociability. There weren’t that many of us, a few hundred at most, some popping by regularly, some intermittently, and blog subjects ranged between being single, topical events, being single, old jokes shaken out for new readers, being single, the occasional attempt to save souls by offering various religions, being single, and every now and then some politics to spice things up.  The being single thing, some blogs were happy about it, some furious and hurting, some philosophical, some raunchy, some advising. It was relevant to the site, after all. One other thing that made it unique – it was like a petrie dish of life itself,  a tiny cross-section of international viewpoints from all ages on all subjects, often fascinatingly alien.

love

A couple of years ago disaster struck. Another blogging website for singles finally closed when it had become so toxic that it had only a handful of members left. The best of them had already come across and fitted right in but unfortunately when it closed its zombies  lurched across and joined CS – for the most part the kind of Christians who would tar and feather Christ for not being American, or at least wearing a MAGA cap.  They blogged relentlessly on their convictions, never joining any of the existing chats, ignoring what CS was as they determinedly changed it to what they had known (and destroyed), lost in their own obsession and speaking only to each other.

roll eyes 

It was like exploding a hate bomb in Cheers. Politics and singles don’t mix.  People obsessed with bigotry certainly don’t mix. Existing members tried to jolly them into chilling, or tried ignoring them, or disinterred unsuspected hates and prejudices to leap into the fray, exploding cyber friendships in the process.  Many withdrew altogether, bored or disgusted or chased on their way by hostility and anger. So much anger, and so much of it illiterate into the bargain.

scold

It reached a point where the minutiae of American politics accounted for the majority of the blogs – an occasional offering from a Normal always attracted comments and chat but Normals were becoming thin on the ground.  (Okay, “Normals” is a loose term, we long-term singles aren’t, but some are more normal than others.)

laugh

Bigmouth launched a protest and a blog asking that politics be confined to a sub-section of the website and although many of the original members joined the protest saying yes yes YES my profile was promptly deleted by the site moderators.

doh 

End of an era. But when I say that one of the no no NO comments was “Bullshite Elegsabutt! (sic) You have a stick so far stuck up your arse you would always find something and someone to complain about,” you can see how far the change has gone. It is definitely time to go.

Please charge your glasses and join me in a toast to a singles website which changed the lives of many besides me. Thank you. No regrets – I knew when I lit the match that I was probably going to be burning my boats, but they were no longer seaworthy as they were. How nice it would have been if instead it had worked and the hate had burned instead. Que sera, sera.

wine

And to the zombies – a pox on your houses.

tongue

The relevance to you, dear Reader, for patiently getting this far? Don’t let politics destroy your friendships and relationships. People can hold different views, despite professional and social media’s frantic attempts to set us all at each other’s throats. If you find yourself hating, it is time to re-examine your position – it may be time to walk away. When the self-obsessed media storm is over, we will still be left with each other – don’t have destroyed that.

 

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How famous a writer would you really want to be?

Yup, I know, international best-seller and household name. That’s the kneejerk reaction, right?

When I first starting publishing books I was convinced I was putting myself under a spotlight for the whole world to see. I’m pretty sure other writers can identify with that, because of course we are. Some are cautious and call themselves totally different names. Some do use their real names, or switch to using their nom de plume all the time, bring it on.

However, the world has quite a lot of calls on its attention. Several million writers, for starters, and unless they are phenomenally successful, writers come pretty far down on the list. From being terrified of the spotlight, we move to diffident attempts to attract it (er, hello?) to actively trying to get noticed, to shrugging and accepting that there may be a handful of people glancing our way occasionally. On a good day.

I genuinely hadn’t realised how far my own attitude has shifted until a member of the singles website which enjoys my patronage did a blog about one of my books – the guide to using a singles website, Looking For Mr Will-Do-Nicely.  It was a decidedly barbed blog, wondering aloud how many people from the website would find themselves in the book, and the first few comments were definitely a little paranoid. A website friend sent me a hurried whatsapp, you have to get that blog deleted! Contact the moderators, they are very helpful, they can take it down.

Are you crazy?

I wasn’t thrilled – the blog was barbed – but as Barnum said, no such thing as bad publicity. The book doesn’t point any fingers at individuals, only at types. It gives really good advice. It’s even listed on my profile on the website, and more to the point, it’s not private. It is for sale anywhere in the world. Anyone can buy it. I wish more people would. Everyone on a singles website, for starters.

grin

My website buddy was slightly horrified. But she’s being negative. Whatever you do, don’t comment on the blog! It will stir up all sorts of trouble.

Umm – like people talking about the book? I did appreciate her concern, but it came from her personal horror of being targeted by the malicious. Individuals crave privacy, writers crave publicity.

I commented on the blog, mainly to defuse the paranoia, and there was laughter and a little discussion before the singles turned their attention to another blog and the whole tiny storm in a tiny teacup faded into yesterday’s news.

Makes me wonder, though, having embraced the spotlight, how bright would I want it to get? It would certainly be nice to sell more books, and all the marketing in the world can’t replace being discussed. All advertising, PR and marketing is aimed at starting discussion!  He who shouts the loudest gets the most attention, and I’m rubbish at shouting.

Can you imagine achieving fame, though?  Shifted from behind the parapet, and hoisted into full view  … after those early anxieties I hadn’t thought about it at all, but these days, ouch. To be even mildly or briefly in the spotlight is to be sniped at by any mean-spirited numpty giddy with the power of being able to fire their assault rifle from cover. To be so famous that every fretful tweet you ever wrote in a bad mood was hauled up out of context and shredded, every unguarded word you ever added to a public Facebook debate was given the rubber-hose treatment, and every decision you made was criticised by the following trolls? It happens to politicians, it happens to celebrities, and it happens to household name writers, good or bad.

So, not too famous.  Selling a few thousand books a month would more than cover it. Ta.

(That singles one, you should tell any mature single you know to get it. No, seriously. Good advice. It’s not in the margin with the others because it isn’t fiction. Click here for an Amazon near you, ebook or paperback)

http://mybook.to/MrWillDoNicely

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I’m so topical I don’t understand why I’m not an icon

Just call me Ms Demographic, Demi for short. I’m a babyboomer, for starters. Born between 1946 and 1964, and a little fed up that my retirement age moved from nicely handy to six years further down the line.

I’m a writer of breezy novellas who, thanks to the ebook and POD revolution, could publish myself. That’s a bigger demographic than you might realize. Last time I checked there were over 13 million books out there, and I checked Amazon.com right now, as I’m typing this – in my main category, Mystery Thriller and Suspense, there were 6829 new releases in the last 30 days.  (One of them is mine, 17 18, woohoo). There are over half a million in that category alone.  I do get pretty excited about occasionally popping into the top twenty thousand writers, but the reality is that only authors consistently in the top thousand enjoy the dizzying excitement of being able to support themselves with their writing.  Still. My books pay for my holidays, and I do take a lot of those.

I’m a mature single – that’s an absolutely huge demographic – and have been on a singles website for a few years now. Research, of course,  but I take my research seriously, been there, done that, got my heart broken (okay, dented) and wrote the book(s). (Being the mature single is the demographic, writing On Meeting Mr Will Do Nicely and a couple of novels was a bit more niche.)

I was made redundant  recently, that’s a growing demographic, and for the second time.  With all those extra years to fill in before I can start living off the fat of the land with a (partial) British pension, I’m part of that other demographic, the one that thinks oi, life the way it is hasn’t really ticked all my boxes or rung all my bells, is it time to try something else?

There’s the demographic of the many, many Brits who bolt to the sun to try that something else in a warmer climate. A staggering percentage of them chose Spain. Never one to buck a trend, I found a dilapidated (i.e. affordable) townhouse in a fairly perfect white village, and decided that was it, future sorted. Sell the house in Scotland, buy the house in Spain, which is way big enough to run a couple of Airbnb options (another growing demographic) and Bob’s your uncle.

Okay, working in Spain would be challenging, since my Spanish so far consists of knowing how to order coffee, and increasingly talented in the areas of point-and-or-mime, and that’s after seven holidays in rapid succession in Spanish-speaking territories.  All I can reasonably ask of the house is that it will earn enough to pay for its own maintenance and upkeep.

No problem. Teach the Spanish to speak English. So I did a TEFL course and am currently busily gaining vital experience as a teacher through an international online agency. That’s a smaller demographic, I’ll grant you that, but it too is growing.

Demographically, I am in so many Venn diagrams that Windmills Of Your Mind is becoming my theme song. I’m a human fidget spinner.

Surely I can turn this wealth of overlapping demographics into cash terms somehow? Brexit and the dratted General Election are playing merry havoc with the pound / euro exchange rate, and I do need that rate strong to do the house-and-fix-up thing. Scotland’s will-we, won’t-we rumblings about independence has slowed the house-sales market to a crawl. Tchah!

Ideas on cashing in on my demographic potential ? Anyone? Ta.

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What makes a granny? This is not a rhetorical question, I need an answer …

What comes to mind when you hear the word Granny ?  And WHY in the name of all that’s holy is this a cross -section of what I get when I looked online for granny cartoons?  Rocking chairs, zimmer frames, grey or white hair – remember Wayne Rooney’s “granny” scandal? She was in her late forties.  Lots of grannies are. Do the math. Have a child in your early twenties,  your child pups in his / her early twenties –  don’t really need a calculator, do we?

So women with children have a reasonable chance of being a granny in their forties, a fairly good one in their fifties, almost guaranteed in their sixties:  yet all the cartoons show dear (or feisty) old ducks, Indian summer gone, winter well on its way, average age, hmm, 80?

And hey, on the subject of 80 – Sophia Loren is 80, and going on tour. The first word that sprang to my mind when I watched her being interviewed was not ‘Granny’.  I have a cousin who is roaring into her 80s. She’s tall, plays golf, skies, gardens, travels a huge amount, she’s fresh-faced and fit as a flea, you’d unhesitatingly knock 20 years and more off her age. She’s very good at being a granny, skies with the grandkids and all. Not a rocking chair in sight.

But back to the fifty-something granny – I said to a male buddy that I was looking into the granny thing and his instinctive reaction? He said he couldn’t help, he never met either of his.  He’s sixty, single, and has dated several .

It’s a sign of the times that we of potential granny age aren’t seen automatically as grannies, and I’m very happy about that, but what word would sum up the woman whose offspring has produced offspring, if they aren’t dear old ducks?

Hence my opening question. What comes to mind when you hear the word Granny? This isn’t idle wittering, I’ve challenged myself to write a ‘granny’ story but this granny – you know me by now – is not a dear old duck.  I have no idea what her grandchild is to call her.

South Africans have a lovely option with the Zulu word for grandmother, gogo, pronounced gaw-gaw,  which I will absolutely claim in real life when the role is available. It’s a bit niche, though, Zulu not being one of the world’s widely-spoken languages.

I’ll be back to worry at this question later, but for now I’ll leave you with this, because it is currently my favourite cartoon.  In fact – I know Goodreads blogs don’t always include my pics – I’m going to add it to my profile, because I really do like it.  The credit to source shows on the photo.

 

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Are you a glowing autumn rose? How-To meet a Mr Will-Do-Nicely … coming soon.

A couple of the reviews on Rainbow, while friendly enough, remarked they had bought the book thinking it was a guide to flourishing as a mature single. Well, in a way it was, the men (and women) Dorothy came across were exaggerated for fictional purposes, but they are distinctive types to be found on every website for mature singles.  A small cross-section in a very large field, you could say.

I’ve written blogs about the types, and I certainly had plenty of material. Write another novella, pulling in more types, and more advice? Or do a how-to book?

I went with the how-to. Well, I went with two. There’s one coming out On Meeting Mr Will-Do-Nicely, and there are times you’d think I was trying to keep all the single mature men to myself, it is so crammed with cautionary tales. I’m not, honestly! The fact remains that most of them pass from hand to hand like hot potatoes (leaving burned fingers in their wake) because eligible men in their fifties and sixties, especially the ones who have been single for a while, are a whole new ballgame.

So why even bother, risk being hurt, heartbroken, scammed, poorer but wiser?  Because we are gorgeous, and still fizzing with life and adventure, and forewarned is forearmed. Go have fun. Do no harm.

As I wrote Mr Will-Do-Nicely I kept adding bits of advice I’d been given, or discovered for myself, which have nothing to do with dating and everything to do with making the best of the totally unexpected surge of energy and sunshine suddenly lighting up life and turning us into autumn roses.  It’s an odd reality that women in their late forties, even early fifties, menopausal and irritable and mourning the loss of fertility, are the most resentful of our Indian summer. You’re how old? You cannot be feeling healthier, fitter, more interested in sex and life generally, than we are, we feel old, you are old!

Ooooh, ffssssssssst.  Whether they like or not (well, they don’t) you can feel better than them. You do. They’ll find out, if they can shake that attitude. Sometime after the menopause the rush of life comes roaring back, for at least a while, and it is wonderful. It is so easy to waste it, with the wrong mind-set. Eventually I’d added so many notes about that it was diluting the singles book. So I moved them to another, On Perfecting The Indian Summer.

Am I an expert? No. Qualified to give advice? Only by experience. These aren’t books that order you about, lay down the law, they are How-To books based on reality.  I’m in my late fifties, I didn’t expect the Indian summer myself, and I did waste the start of it. I briefly joined a mature singles website to research one of my whodunits (Five Six Pick Up Sticks) and later I joined another for Nine Ten Begin Again so I could ask some fairly direct questions, and eventually I wrote A Second Rainbow. I’ve had a lot of fun, in the name of research, along the way. As for the Indian summer itself, I’ve met many women enjoying the sunshine, including my own half-sisters over a decade ahead of me in age, and they’ve all been generous with sharing advice. I played with the subject, in Eleven Twelve, where I called it the gloaming, and that put me in touch with more autumn roses. There are a lot of us quietly out there.

It will be interesting to see how the books do but if a single reader, just one, enjoys herself more as a result of reading either, they did their job.

Out sooooooooooooooon

by

Weddings and Seven Eight and chewing nails.

The wedding was great, such fun, and daughter and son-in-law are now getting thoroughly sunburned in South Africa, presuming they survived the dive with Great great whitesWhites which she’d set her heart on. I’m being very optimistic and assuming I’d have heard by now if they didn’t. They were going to be in a cage, after all, what could go wrong? (And yes, I saw Jaws too. Hush.)

So, once the excitement of the wedding weekend was over, and the hangover had finally subsided, I wasted a few days getting used to the silence and a few more listlessly doing some bits and pieces and have suddenly realized that my latest book launches in days and needs at least some help from me, eek. Apart from anything else, it had to go from the returned Edit-my-book version into Jutoh format, so the weekend has been spent doing that, and reading the Kindle simulation, and making changes, and re-reading, and making more changes, and today is the final final read-through and it gets loaded on Amazon tomorrow. How scary is that? Frankly, terrifying. I’d recruited more beta readers than ever before and two of them fell by the wayside. That’s not a good start! The ones who finished it, liked it and think it’s the best so far. Really? Five Six will always be my favourite, but then right at the moment Seven Eight is so familiar to me I have to do all the editing tricks in the book (reading it backwards, changing the font size, putting it in columns) just to prevent my jaded eyes from saying yeah, yeah, we’ve read this before, can we move swiftly on?

seven eight finalI do love the Festival, and the book is partly a celebration of the Festival. And Fiona Bentwood swears and smokes and is bitchy, she’s the antagonist but I sneakily rather like her. I really did enjoy writing the final third of the book more than any of the others, but I broke some writing rules with the opening scene and I nervously suspect that will come back to bite me. Keep it simple, the experts say, and quite rightly. The Festival is crowded, and lively, and the opening scene is crowded and lively, and those two beta readers faded on me (just never responded at all) and my nerves are shot. I’ve included the opening on its own tab in this website, and if you read it, and have some useful advice (other than, you know, ‘scrap the whole scene’ because it sets up most of the activity in the book so I can’t) you should definitely feel free to let me know. Preferably before I load it tomorrow night.

I’m doing a soft launch at a lower price up to the official launch, in the eternally optimistic hope of getting a couple of reviews on there, and will soon be twisting beta reader arms to post reviews, but the rest of the pre-launch promotion has pretty much been torpedoed by the wedding. Five Six got a proper planned detailed launch and outsold both the previous books in their respective first weeks so I have no-one to blame but myself if poor Seven Eight falls flat on its colourful little face. It is a book born in my first (and last!) NaNoWriMo, but most of the fifty thousand words written then had to be stripped away ruthlessly, scrubbed, and slotted back in new ways; if not discarded altogether. Writing under a deadline was absolutely horrifying and lends itself far too much to quantity over quality, the editing was a nightmare. It is still the longest book in the series so far and definitely rambles a bit too much in the Exposition but that’s to lull the reader into an easy doze as they are ushered gently past clues and red herrings. I want alert readers to spot the murderer, of course I do.  That makes the traps more exciting. But it can’t be too easy. Moving swiftly on . . .

(Ah, just seen the good news on Facebook—they survived the shark dive. Phew.)