At 60, bestselling author of Chocolat JOANNE HARRIS reveals why she doesn't fear ageing - and the advice she would give her younger self
When I was a child, someone told me: ‘Every life is a story.’ I used to wonder what mine would be like; what adventures I would have.
My favourite stories were from Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book, which my grandfather used to read to me: Thus I imagined my own story as a forest adventure in which I would run wild with my friends.
I never imagined growing old, just as I never imagined the adults around me ever being young. And death, if I thought of it at all, was a monster that kept to the shadows.
I was four years old when I first encountered the monster. It was in France, when my great-grandmother died, having been taken ill suddenly as she and I were playing a game.
I still remember that suddenness, and my mother’s tears, and the various well-meaning relatives trying in their different ways, to explain to me why I shouldn’t be sad, how at 65, Mémée was old, how death was natural, and that she was watching us from above.
At four, I concluded, both with certainty and a singular horror, that I had more or less 60 years of life before it happened to me. For years after that, I would lie awake at night and think of the monster waiting for me in the dark, and tell myself that 60 years was a very long time.
Author Joanne Harris would lie awake in the dark as a small child and 'think of the monster waiting for me in the dark'
That was when I decided, with relentless, childish logic, that if death was the ultimate monster, then perhaps I could only hope to keep them at bay with stories.
And so I began to tell stories, first to myself, in secret, and then to anyone who would listen. Of course, it took me a long, long time to understand that what I was doing was trying to make sense of the world. In a universe of chaos, stories give a shape to our lives.
Now I’m approaching 60. It feels as if no time at all has passed since the night my great-grandmother died. At 60, we’re meant to examine our lives, and think about mortality – which is what I’ve been doing.
This is the advice I’d give my younger self, if I could. Life is like a story with a beginning, a middle, an end. It is not always as structured or as ordered as a story might be, and some are longer than others, but the journey is ours in part to direct.
We can choose the paths we take, the places in which to linger. We can choose the people we travel with, the ones we make a part of our lives. Choose wisely, I would tell my younger self at the start of my journey; not everyone who seems friendly is a friend.
True friends are not easy to come by; always cherish the ones you find. And bear in mind that the journey matters more than the destination. We live in a world where everything seems focused on the future; events to plan; deadlines to meet; months and seasons flashing by.
Time seems to accelerate as we get older; and yet there are ways to slow it down. We don’t have to rush through everything in order to rush through something else. We can exist in the moment. Stop. Pick the flowers. Feel the sun. Remember we only pass this way once, and that every step is a privilege.
These woods are filled with obstacles, and challenges, and wonder. Not all paths through it are easy. Stay curious, I would tell myself. Never stop asking questions. Wear your achievements lightly, and don’t be afraid of failure. Failures are a sign you tried; markers on the road to success. And as a teacher of 15 years, one thing I have learnt is this: there are no teachers, just pupils. We are able to learn from every stage of our lives.
Elders may speak from experience, but some of the most important things I have learnt have been from younger people. Bringing up my son has been the lesson of a lifetime; I learn new things from him every day.
So take your lessons where you can, and pay them back to others in kind. And don’t be afraid to make mistakes: mistakes are part of your story too, every one a lesson learnt, every one a challenge. Nor should you fear the changes that time imposes on us. Change is what drives your story. Sometimes it brings grief and loss; sometimes, unexpected joy.
And don’t be ashamed of the signs of age: in a world in which youth is prized far above experience, it’s all too easy to feel diminished by wrinkles and imperfections. But your body is a living map of everything you have experienced. Everything leaves marks on you. Childbirth; laughter; damage; grief. Be proud of those marks. They are proof that you have lived.
Joanne's great-grandmother Memee was the prototype for Armande in her novel Chocolat. Pictured: Juliette Binoche as Vianne and Johnny Depp as Roux in the film version
When I look at my face now I see the faces of my family. I see my mother, my grandmother. I carry their stories inside me, coiled as tight as DNA.
I mostly know my great-grandmother from stories my mother told me. The story of the day she died; her life in rural, wartime France; her recipes; her sayings; her jokes. Through stories, my son can know her, even though they never met. And, of course, you know her, too: she was the prototype for Armande, the fierce old woman in Chocolat.
Through stories, people can live on, and be loved and understood. This is one of the things I have learnt on my journey through the woods; perhaps the most important thing: tell your stories.
Now, after many stories, I’m reaching that part of the forest where monsters lurk in the darkness. Three years ago, I had a brush with a monster I called Mr C – an aggressive kind of cancer, which luckily was found early.
I survived that encounter, thanks to the care and vigilance of the NHS, but one of the lessons it taught me is that life is fragile, and precious, and short – much shorter than we imagine. Over the past few years I have lost too many loved ones to Mr C.
Right now, at 60, I don’t feel old. I am more conscious of time passing by. I feel the change of the seasons in a way I didn’t before. But my walk in the woods has been beautiful. I have fulfilled my greatest dreams.
I do what I love for a living. I’ve travelled the world, and had many adventures, and met many interesting people. I’m married to someone I love, who loves me. I have a son who makes me proud, and who I love more than words can say. I’ve faced down monsters, and survived. I’ve learnt a lot, sometimes the hard way.
Joanne Harris says that at 60 she is more conscious of time passing by but doesn't feel old
In spite of what I thought at four, approaching 60 is nothing to fear. There are still unwritten chapters to my story to be lived; places to discover, new things to learn. I want to climb mountains. To travel through space. To see the depths of the ocean. Some of those things I may never know except in stories, but books are the way in which we live our many alternative, possible lives.
I feel I’m just beginning to understand what matters to me; to find my equilibrium in this vast, bewildering world.
For so many years, being 60 felt like the end of a journey. Now I see that it’s only another clearing in the woods. Maybe I’ll sit here awhile. Enjoy the sunshine. Pick the fruit. But soon I’ll be on my way again, picking up stories wherever I go.
I think I’ve seen a path at the end of the clearing. It’s new, and therefore exciting, and promises adventure. I think I’ll follow it awhile; see what fruits are growing there. Stories flourish along these paths. Let’s see which ones I can find. After all, that’s what I do. And those monsters won’t defeat themselves.
The Moonlight Market by Joanne Harris is available now. Published by Gollancz.
