Writer's Log, October, 31st: Late Bloomers | Elizabeth Percer
I've never fully understood the concept of late bloomers. Superficially, I know it refers to those who seem to achieve glory after the ripe old age of twenty-three, but it's one of those ideas that smack you over the head coming in and then hit you on the bottom going out: a concept that says, too bad it took you so long, and also, we've noticed how old you've become. But I think what bothers me most about this concept isn't the part about being late. What I find so skin-crawlingly upsetting is this persistent idea, in our culture, is the idea that we are at our best when we are in bloom. That what matters most is that brief moment when others experience us as being the most beautiful, the most brazen, the most admirable versions of ourselves. Yet blooming is what flowers do for a week at most, right before they rot and/or turn to dust. Is this really how we wish to talk about human flourishing? I think this particular idea bugs me as much as it does because it is exactly the sort of