Age.

I don’t feel old. But I bet that is what all the old people say.
​As time goes on and I talk to my twenty-something daughters, I realize that my age shows in my work. I am not sure if that is a good thing or a bad thing, or if it just is.
I was reading a story the other day, and the author made a comment about a Rolodex. I chuckled, but then I wondered how old this lady was to know what a Rolodex was. My mom had one of those. I didn’t even have one. So… that’s like a really old reference even for me.
I think about that when I’m writing. Now that it happened to me, I wonder if what I put into words just sounds like an old person and her babble. Don’t get me wrong, even if you said yes, you are a babbling old person, I would still write. I would write and give you the finger between chapters. But still, I want to be conscientious about the terms I use, not because they age me, but because I want to paint a story for you. I want to immerse you in the very best tale I can weave, and I don’t think I can do that if I am referencing a Nokia flip phone. (I used to have one of those.)
As I write this post, I think about the movies and shows from the eighties and nineties, or even the ones made in the fifties. Some stories are timeless and still hold up. I want that magic. Maybe if I keep working on being the best writer I can be, I will get there one day.