When the initial glow wore off, I felt a bit miffed. I mean, for heaven's sake. My writing appeals to Elderlies. I'd guessed this already to a certain extent as I have a story with Yours magazine, awaiting publication. And thrilled to bits I am too!! (In the unlikely event the editor's reading this.)
Then I realised that there is a theme in my writing. My First-Ever Novel involved a mad, ageing mother-in-law and hi-jinks in an old folks home. My current one features a funny grandma. I've also written stories over the years about winsome children reaching out to grumpy grandparents, and elderly folk having a final shot at Happiness. Hmmmmmmm. (Strokes chin thoughtfully.) What's going on here? Admittedly, I was closer to my grandma than anyone else, growing up. I also used to run errands for the old lady who lived round the corner. Old people liked me, goddammit. People used to say things like, "ooh, she's got an old head on young shoulders has that one," about me, and to this day I clean one morning a week for my friend's elderly mum. I even like Werther's Originals.
This is such a depressing realisation. There's me, thinking I'm firmly in touch with my inner sex kitten/domestic goddess/music guru/teenager/yummmy mummy, when in fact I'm channelling a bloody pensioner.
It's not fair.