Some months after my novel was published in the fall of 2021, I happened upon a 2010 survey of 246 fiction authors which, among other findings, found that the average age – and the most common age – for their “debut” novel release was 36 years. If this in any way represented the universe of authors, then at the age of 74, my writing career was off to a very late start.

Here I am, five more years down the road. I’ve steered past a few life detours, and I’m back to working steadily on my second book (a sort of sequel to the first). But is it enough to just keep “working steadily,” or should I be picking up the pace out of a sense of urgency? There’s no denying that my already truncated writing career, by cold actuarial standards, is running out of time – but with no way of knowing how much is left.

I was surprised to find that a much younger and much better-known author wrestles with this as well. I had occasion to read “These Precious Days,” a fine collection of essays by Ann Patchett. In her introduction to the collection, she reveals that unlike with essays, writing fiction stirs up in her a palpable fear of death – that’s right, a fear of death. As she sees it, in giving life to her fictional characters, she feels responsible for their existence until she turns them loose, fully formed, in a finished novel. But beyond that, she worries that if she should somehow die beforehand, she condemns her characters to die with her.

I think Ms. Patchett is serious about this, and I must assume that this fear motivates her to finish a manuscript at a pace tinged with urgency. The only difference between me and Ms. Patchett is that she senses her mortality at a much younger age. As I enter my ninth decade, though, shouldn’t I have the same – or even a greater – sense of urgency in my writing?

I’ve given it some thought. I’m gonna try not to go that route.

I spent several years writing columns for a local newspaper. I enjoyed writing them, but writing under deadline pressure was hard for me. Surely, there was a better column in me than the one I submitted by the deadline.

But with writing novels, Ms. Patchett and I face existential deadlines (good word for it!) of our own circumstance, with timelines hidden in our unknown futures. Like Ms. Patchett, I look forward to the satisfaction of a finished book, but I don’t want my existential deadline to steal my enjoyment of the writing process. I can’t see how Ms. Patchett avoids writing in a backdrop of personal foreboding. I wish to avoid that.

I want to write with deliberate speed, but I’d rather not have fear of death be a motivator. I will try to write with no concern for my mortality. I will eat sensibly, exercise regularly, get sufficient sleep, and let the chips fall where they may. I’m committed to the project of writing this book, but I’m also committed to the fun of writing it. If I have to leave it behind unfinished, I’ll just have to be OK with that. I’m not terribly worried about my literary legacy. As for the fate of my characters, I’m sure they’ll be OK, too.