Dreams · Authors · Keep Going
He is 91.
And he is still dreaming.
A 91-year-old author sent me an email asking me to review his book, and somehow he reminded me that dreams do not come with an expiration date.
By Lupe Farkas ·
Dear Rebels,
There are moments when I wonder if everything I am doing is actually worth it. You know that little hater, that internal saboteur who appears completely uninvited and whispers, “You are wasting your time, bitch. Get over it and go find a real job.” Yes. That one. He talks to me too.
Most of the time I manage to ignore him. I give him a Coke Zero, tell him to sit quietly somewhere in the back of my brain, and continue doing whatever ridiculous thing I had decided to do that day. But sometimes he gets loud. Especially when I am tired, when things are moving slower than I hoped, when I am working constantly and wondering whether anyone is actually noticing. On those days, ignoring him becomes almost impossible.
A very unusual email
Then yesterday something happened.
I received an email from a 91-year-old author asking if I would consider reviewing his book. Rebels. Ninety-one.
I opened the email and genuinely stopped for a moment because it was not written like an email at all. It was written like a letter.
That was it. No marketing funnel. No fake excitement. No carefully engineered pitch. A letter from a 91-year-old man asking someone on the other side of the world if she would please read his book.
And Rebels, I know I am repeating myself, but my goodness. He is 91 years old.
Still asking · Still trying · Still believing
He still has a book.
He still has a dream.
He is still sending emails. He is still looking for readers. He is still hoping that perhaps the next person who opens his book will talk about it, that perhaps the next review will help it enter another home, and that perhaps another reader will discover something he spent part of his life creating.
At ninety-one years old, he is still putting his work in front of the world
and saying:
“Here. I made this. Will you look at it?”
I do not think I had ever seriously imagined being 91. Of course I know people reach that age. I understand mathematics. 😂 But I had never really sat there and imagined myself almost touching one hundred years of life.
What would I still want? What would I still be dreaming about? Would I still care whether somebody read something I wrote? Would I still be sending my books into the world?
A slap followed by a forehead kiss
That email shook me awake.
Apparently, for at least one unaffiliated author in North Carolina, the answer is yes. And that email felt like somebody slapped me across the face and immediately followed it with a very sweet kiss on the forehead.
Wake up.
And then, very softly:
It is okay. Keep dreaming.
I got emotional. And I know, Rebels, this entire week has already been an emotional rollercoaster for me. I am an Aquarius. We are not exactly famous for dramatically crying into curtains every afternoon.
But this week? My goodness.
The writers contacting me have absolutely destroyed whatever emotional reputation I had left. I have heard from established authors, brand-new authors, authors preparing books that will not even be released until 2027, and authors who poured themselves into a book and simply wanted somebody, somewhere, to see what they created.
And now a 91-year-old author appears in my inbox. Still asking. Still trying. Still believing.
So what exactly is our excuse?
Maybe dreams really do not expire.
If a 91-year-old man can still believe that there is another reader somewhere in the world waiting for his book, then who the hell am I, at my age, to decide that I have already tried long enough?
Who am I to decide that something is taking too much time? Who am I to stop shouting about my books because the numbers are not enormous yet? Who am I to decide that a dream has an expiration date?
And actually, Rebel, this is not only about me. It is about you too. You sitting there reading this with an idea living somewhere inside your head.
You with the unfinished manuscript. You with the finished manuscript nobody knows exists. You with the business idea. The podcast. The painting. The strange project you have not told anybody about because part of you is terrified they will laugh.
You with one book staring at you from your computer. You with six books staring at you from your computer. You with something you desperately want to create but keep telling yourself you are too old, too late, too inexperienced, too invisible, too small, or too whatever-the-hell-your-own-saboteur has decided to call you today.
We now know a 91-year-old author who refuses to stop showing his book to the world. So what exactly is our excuse?
Maybe the next email changes something. Maybe the next reader tells somebody else. Maybe the next review finds the person who needed that book. Maybe nothing enormous happens tomorrow. Maybe the dream simply grows one person at a time.
To Mr. Fisher
Tomorrow you will get your review.
Mr. Fisher, I do not know whether you realised it when you sent me that wonderfully old-fashioned email yesterday, but you did not only ask me to read your book.
You reminded me to keep believing in mine.
And I think a few Rebels reading this needed that reminder too.
Mr. Fisher, tomorrow you will get your review. I cannot promise where it will travel or how many people will see it, but I can promise you this: I will do my very best to help your book find the right readers.
The book
A New Theory of the Visible Universe
Perhaps shouting about the thing you created is not embarrassing. Perhaps continuing to believe in it is not delusional. Perhaps there is something extraordinarily beautiful about looking at the world at ninety-one years old and still thinking:
There might be one more reader out there.
Keep writing. Keep sending the email. Keep showing people what you made. Keep dreaming.
We are apparently nowhere near old enough to give up yet.
Love,
Lupe
Powered today by Coke Zero, questionable emotional stability, dreamy clouds, stubborn hope, and one 91-year-old author who completely destroyed my excuses.