The perfect age

The female main character of just about every novel I read falls into the young adult age group.

They are young and marriageable -- Jane Austen's Jane and Elizabeth, Emma. Older women -- Emma's poor mother is long dead -- seem to be powerless or silly. Just look at the mother in Pride and Prejudice.

I'm a huge fan of Laura Lippman's novels about Tess Monaghan. How old is Tess? I'm not sure but it isn't over 40.

Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina, Flaubert's Madame Bovary, Jane Eyre, Rebecca, Tess of the D'Urbervilles. Every romance novel I've ever read. All young. Anne Tyler, I think, is the exception; her women heroines are older. I'm not sure how old they are.

I've struggled over my character's age. I want her to be 50, no! 27, no! 35. The question is what's the right age for her? I had been thinking she had to be young. See above list of books to understand my thinking. Books are about young women -- a whole life before them, endless possibilities, hopes and promise. They are inexperienced and have no past to worry about.

And that's just the problem I see here.

Jane has a past. I see her as damaged goods (lost love, disappointment in career, wounds that haven't healed.) Those memories have made this story possible. She needs to have the characteristics that have come from dealing with her past to make her future possible.

So how old does Jane need to be?

I really did start with her at age 27. But she was too young for all the troubles I wanted to throw at her. Poor young woman.

So I made her 50. But would she be pathetic still to be alone, for instance, or frightened or shy or struggling with a career change? I was afraid 50 was too old. And I wondered who would read a story about a struggling 50 year old woman.

So I gave her her youth back. Only this time, I made her 35. It didn't last.

I realized today that 50 was an interesting age. I know personally because I'm there.

At 50, all kinds of new possibilities open up. You suddenly realize 2/3 of your life is behind you so you better hurry up and live. Stop waiting; stop worrying. Love is different. It's just about you and the one you love now. Kids are grown; new kids are no longer a possibility. You're invisible. I thought that was pretty rotten when I realized it but being invisible means you can do as you damn well please. Wear purple (as the old poem goes). Jog down the street (dance if you want to even). Lots of other things, too.

Sorry, Jane. Your youth is behind you. But life is still ahead. Lots of life: a strong life, a hope-filled, love-filled life. And you don't care what anybody thinks -- finally.

As it turns out, perhaps 50 is the perfect age.