Feeling nostalgic this weekend, I remembered this post I'd written years ago and thought it was time to update it and share it again. Maybe some of the memories will resonate with you.
I've heard authors say they write for themselves. I do that sometimes. I've filled journals with thoughts and prayers, private things written for me, an offering to God. But my books? I don't write them for me. Or I don't write them only for me, anyway.
I write for my reader. Who is she?
A woman in her fifties or sixties. She’s a Baby Boomer, or perhaps a member of Generation X, though she couldn’t tell you what that means. As a little girl, she wore orange-flowered pants and pulled her milk out of a gold refrigerator. (Or was it olive green?) She watched Sesame Street and never missed Saturday morning cartoons. She got a perm in middle school, hated it, swore she’d never do it again, and then got another one in high school. She wore great big bows in her hair to go along with her shoulder pads and chunky jewelry. She shampooed with PermaSoft or Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific, and then she covered that great scent with Aqua Net to keep her big hair in place.
She watched the Huxtables every Thursday night. She remembers that chick from Weird Science asking us not to hate her because she was beautiful, and she remembers secretly wishing she were beautiful enough to be hated for it.
She paid attention to the nightly reports about the hostages in Iran, and who could forget the images as they return to American soil? There was the shocking moment when John Hinkley’s bullet came within inches of altering the course of history. And of course the wedding of the century, Princess Charles and Diana, taught her that even ordinary girls can become princesses.
She thought Sweet Child of Mine was a stirring melody. Or maybe she couldn’t be bothered with Guns N Roses (which she called Water Pistols and Pansies) and instead preferred the more sophisticated sound of U2. Either way, she knew all the words to Hey, Micky, and if she happens to hear it, she sings along every time.
She wore Sassoon and Jordache and Gloria Vanderbilt and Guess. She owed a Member’s Only jacket, sported a bi-level at least once, and dated at guy with a MacGyver mullet—business in the front, party in the back. The guy was always more party than business.
Her parents, products of the forties and fifties, were gloriously unaware of the world they raised their daughter in. About half of them stayed married to their first spouses, so maybe she grew up with both parents in the home, but it’s just as likely she was raised by a single mother or in a blended family. Maybe she spent every Wednesday and two weekends a month with her dad.
Unlike her mother, my reader learned early on that so-called free love came at a great cost. Unlike Bill Clinton, she might have inhaled a time or two. Maybe she discovered alcohol young enough that it was still deliciously illegal, and the drugs and alcohol, too, cost more than just her weekly allowance.
Or maybe she steered clear of all that foolishness but watched her friends or family members fall prey, which can be just as painful.
She was raised to believe she could have it all—career, marriage, children. Her future was so bright, she needed Ray-Bans to see it. She went to college, studied hard, and planned to achieve success in the form of a six-figure salary and a four-bedroom house.
Only it didn’t turn out like she’d planned. Not that it was bad—just unexpected. She got a job and realized the workplace was nothing like Michael J. Fox made it look in The Secret of My Success. She met a guy and learned the hard way that marriage was nothing like they made it look on The Cosby Show. And then she had children, and nothing prepared her for that.
She rocked her babies and cried as she watched the towers fall in 2001. She wondered what kind of world she’d brought her children into. Along with the rest of the nation, she sang God Bless America and prayed and somehow went on in a world that was not the same.
Maybe she worked full time. Maybe she worked a part time job or even stayed home with her children, foregoing the once dreamed-of six-figure income for her family. Maybe she home schooled, maybe not. No matter what, she was busier than her mother had been, busier than any woman in any generation before her. And she still is.
Today, her favorite music is on the oldies station, and her kids sing along with her because, somehow, it’s cool again. If only big hair would come back into style too.
She’s struggling with her kids and young adult children, maybe even enjoying grandchildren, while her parents have procedures—joint replacements and heart surgeries and everything in between. She’s still married or long divorced, and either way, despite all the people in her life, sometimes she’s lonely.
She remembers the choices from so many years ago, the boy with the bad haircut and the sweet talk. The partying and the fun that never really was. She thinks about those things that cost her so much and longs for the simplicity of floral-scented shampoo. She sometimes wishes she could go back and do it differently. Yes, she lives with regrets.
And then she sees the faces of the people she loves and realizes she, too, is loved. She’s not perfect, but she matters. Because it was never about perfection. It was about going for it, trying and failing, and standing up again.
And as she ages, she understands more than ever that it wasn’t about her at all, but about the One who created her and loves her and brought her through the craziness. The One who’ll keep bringing her through, day after day, until she meets Him face to face.
The woman I write for isn’t a demographic or a statistic. She’s a real, living, breathing human being. She’s my friend.
And yes, maybe, she’s a lot like me.
If any of this resonated with you, or if you'd like to share your own memory of childhood, leave a comment. If you do, you'll be entered to win an ebook copy of A Mountain Too Steep, the final book in the Coventry Saga.
Now, check out my next novel, Running to You.
