I'm 31. I don't mind admitting it. It's young in the grand total of ages.
Sometimes I wonder if my soul isn't older.
I can be old-fashioned in my thinking. Sometimes I feel out-of-touch with my own generation and its wants, its pastimes. I might feel more comfortable among women twice my age, in conversation and connection, rather than those of my own generation. I've gone on and on here before about antiques--anything of age, really--and my love for them.
The main character in my WIP is 82; her kids, all in their fifties, are satisfying to write about. And I'm reading The Bondwoman's Narrative, which was written by a slavewoman sometime around the mid-eighteen hundreds. Her speech and words, the flow of her thinking, draw me in as if we communicated with such prose every day.
I once took a Facebook quiz about my soul's age, and it suggested 42. Part of me thinks even that's too young.
Not that I'd ever know for sure, because I'm 31. Ask my mom.
Do you ever wonder about your soul's age?