At 65, I Applied for Medicare — and Published a Bestseller

Reporting the book was pure pleasure; after a stressful few days spent persuading Michaels to throw in with me (I knew him vaguely), I interviewed him almost 50 times and had hilarious conversations with the many generations of the show’s writers and cast members. But the writing part was harder than I expected, and there were many days when I sat in front of my computer frozen in terror. One of my wisest editor friends used to say, “All biography is autobiography.” (The exposure!)

Taking deep breaths, I would remind myself of other points in my life when I’d signed on to do something I didn’t really know how to do: be the editor in chief of a weekly newspaper, run an esteemed arts-and-letters organization (an extracurricular volunteer pursuit). Each time it had felt like jumping off a cliff, but I’d found my bearings. On my most panicky days I’d click away from my messy Lorne file and check my bank balance online, trying to imagine how I’d manage if it turned out that I had to return the advance money to the publisher. How would it feel to fail so conspicuously this late in life?

The book took me 10 years to complete, and there were many times — marooned, say, around Season 21, the Chris Farley years — when I thought I might never get to the end. It was as if I were adrift in the middle of an ocean, the other shore impossibly out of reach. I handed the book in, still not having any idea if it was good. When detailed notes of praise started coming in from mentors to whom I’d shown the manuscript, I burst into tears. These were people who’d taught me everything but who, I’d always imagined, viewed me primarily as the competent woman who cleaned up everyone else’s messes.

When the book finally was published, its timing was accidentally perfect. Lorne appeared three days after SNL turned 50 and immediately found its audience. Critics and readers liked it, and to my relief I did, too. Had promising to do something I wasn’t sure I could deliver impel me to become the person who could? I talked about the book on dozens of TV shows and podcasts, and I was gratified to see that so many people shared my fascination with how SNL came to be. They loved hearing about Michaels testifying at Keith Richards’ heroin trial in 1978, and about Bill Murray getting into a backstage fistfight with Chevy Chase.

Michaels likes to say that everyone who watches SNL believes that its funniest years were the ones when they were in high school. That’s true. (It’s also true that, like the Dow or the Yankees, the show has good years and bad years.) But as I talked to readers, I sensed that the boomers like me who gathered in our basements to watch the original Not Ready for Prime Time Players had the most passionate attachment. How many of our yearbooks contained references to “wild and crazy guys” and “parental units”? 

One of the reasons Michaels and I connected so well is that his job, like mine, involves helping others make the most of their talents. I’m proud of that skill, but a nagging voice in my head had always wondered why I wasn’t motivated to create my own work. Why was I more comfortable in the wings, as the facilitator, the handmaiden? I still don’t know. But when I wake up in the morning now, I feel different. I feel like a writer. 

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.