A few famous authors who were my peers back in the day have been announcing their retirement lately; I won't name names because I don't want to attract their fan bases here. Let me just say that I completely understand what it is to cope with increasing mental and physical limits due to age and infirmity, and how hard a hit the ego takes because of that. They have my sincere sympathy.
I don't have a retirement date set for myself just yet. It's getting closer, but I have not noticed any diminished capability on my part other than it takes me a little longer to get things done. I asked for and was given more time this year to work on my current big project for the day job. My editor and I have both acknowledged that we're in the winding down stage of the career, not that it matters when you're a writer for hire. No one knows that I'm the one writing these projects, so no one will miss the real me when I hang it up. Kind of nice that way.
After writing a body of work that remains unmatched among my peers I feel like I did not waste the chance I was given. I lasted far longer in the industry than anyone, even me, expected. When I was kicked to the curb, I got up, dusted myself off, fired my agent and began a very lucrative freelance career. It's now more successful than my time writing for NY.
Would I do it again if I could go back in time? Absolutely not. Knowing what I do now, and the amount of damage done to me because of it, I would never publish anything for any reason. Nor would I ever choose to meet other writers. I would be another Emily Dickinson, just with novels instead of poetry -- but I'd make sure everything got burned before I died. That would have worked out much better for me and my heart.
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