Home truths

I come to the States twice a year to see Isaac, Wendy, Lux and Cece. Each time I come, Isaac has a little more grey hair, and the girls are taller and more grown-up. (Wendy doesn't seem to change.) And I was wondering what I looked like to them. So I asked Isaac if he thought I looked older every time he met me at the airport.

"It's not that I think you look older, you do look older."
(He's his father's boy.)

This is what I look like to me:

This is what I look like to Isaac:

When I was little and went to stay with my Gran, I never thought about what she looked like. She was my Gran. She was old, she was lame (that's what we said back then when someone had had polio and couldn't walk without sticks) and she was huge fun. I loved her, and I loved staying with her. She always looked the same to me, through the years, from when she was 65 to when she died at 92. Or maybe I just didn't think about what she looked like, just as Lux and Cece love me for who I am, not what I look like.

Isaac loves me, of course, even though he notices my wrinkles. Lux and Cece just love me.

The thing is - my wrinkles make me feel less confident, and I'm disappointed that they do. I'm going to the London Screenwriters' Festival at the end of October, where I'm hoping to get someone interested in producing my script. There will be crowds of young vibrant people there with screenwriting careers ahead of them, and then there'll be me. Ten years ago I'd be excited. How do I drum up some confidence and enthusiasm for the coming fray?