Among the many things I wasn’t prepared for after publishing my first novel at the age of 52 was the question I’m asked most often. I’ve heard it at book tour events in England, Germany, and here in the United States. The wording and language vary, but the gist of the question is the same: “Aren’t you too old for this?”

People ask for different reasons. Some mean it as a compliment. Young writers ask because they want to avoid the missteps that left me unpublished until such a frighteningly ancient age. Others hint that I must have wasted decades by indulging in foolish pursuits.

I used to answer that I wasn’t too old for anything. I never agonized over not producing a book sooner and I never believed that my 30 years working as a musician were wasted. But the skepticism elicited by my response caused me to wonder if perhaps I wasn’t being completely honest with audiences or myself.

So for the first time in my life, I gave some thought to what I might actually be too old for. Two things came to me immediately. I am too old to drink to excess in public. Twenty-plus years ago, wildly drunken evenings with friends became fodder for stories that were cheerfully retold during slightly less drunken evenings with friends. I am also too old to pull off dressing anachronistically. In my younger days, I could slip into the clothing of a bygone decade and be admired for my free-spiritedness. If I were to venture outside today sporting a broad-collared, psychedelic print shirt, I would be mocked by strangers, and pitied by friends and family.