When I'm 64.
I turned 64 on the day of the recent book launch party. It’s the age the Beatles sang about—“Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?” This begs the question, why did I wait so many years to publish a book? When I was in my twenties I felt I simply didn’t know enough, hadn’t lived long enough, to write credibly. What’s become obvious since then is that knowledge and insight gained from years on the planet are not actual prerequisites for writing books. There are many gifted young writers in print today. Others get published because they are already famous. But this path is the one I chose, and I’m okay with that. Feels pretty good, actually.