Kim, you're a smart man.
Age doesn't equal wisdom, regardless of what most people think. I know plenty of sixty, seventy-year olds who are complete idiots. And I admit that I'm only 38, so all my 'old people rule!' stuff is a bit premature, because I'm not even eligible to run for president yet. But I've reached a point in my life where I can state unequivocally that I know what I am, what I want, and what I'm prepared to do to achieve those wants.
It's sometimes scary to look back, not only at the boy that I was, but also at the MAN that I was, once I achieved my majority. The loves I professed would last forever - the fire and passion for causes that, in retrospect, were momentary and ephemeral things - the dangerous stunts (both physical and metaphysical) I performed without thinking of the consequences.
And, of course, the prodigious amounts of alcohol I consumed...
Kim, I wouldn't worry too much about your flexibility and adapability. You're a writer, and a fine one. Your mind ranges across the big questions, the gigantic conundrums, the galactic 'what-ifs', and from what I've read of your stuff you don't take the easy way out and think you know the truth about any of them. Instead, you quest and query and question, you present your evidence while admitting the existence of other facts, you examine critically rather than pick and choose those things that help your cause.
Stephen King, in 'Danse Macabre' (I think - it's been a while since I read that worthy book) notes the curious youthfulness in some author's faces - Bradbury and Ellison are two I remember him mentioning - and supposes that maybe something about the speculative process keeps tale-spinners young. If so, then that's the kind of youth I want to hold onto. Not the iron guts, or the sinewy frame, or the frantic passion - but the ever-youthful bloom of imagination and fascination with the unknown and the relentless drive to discover the truth, even when you know you'll never be entirely sure that it IS true, and even the eagerness, on your deathbed, to find out WHAT COMES NEXT...
Dorian Gray can have his painting, and Peter Pan his Neverland. I want to hit that undiscovered country going seventy on a fifty-five, with the wind blowing my gray hair through the open window and rock and roll on the radio.
Sorry - feeling a bit pensive tonight.