I am probably turning senile, but I'm beginning to think my advanced age is not an age, but a dimension.
Take writing and music. In the same dimension? Well, maybe in the same family, for I seem a crashing bore, though enthusiastic, at both writing and music. Suddenly it seems, at 70+, that the music is taking me over.
It became clear to me at the hysterically young age of seventy-three that I may have been wrong in killing myself at writing these past fifty years. (The financial reward was paltry while it seems at music, you not only get a sort of instant gratification, but more often than not, somebody at least will supply the beer); seems that with writing, you are to one buying the beer, for agents and prospective publishers. With music, more often than not, you'll get a beer sent to both you and your companion if a performance was particularly good.
It has struck me that I may have been losing at writing of half a century, while music seems easy, and somehow helps your soul to catch up with your body after all that sin and muddlement.
That or it's just some death angel, possibly from Dixie, and though I try to be John Prine in my music, It is just an imitation of that musical tiger.
So where is your own song, old Ivan?
Hopefully, it's in my novels, but it seems lately that if you blow on the words, they just seem to fade away.