Turning 40 (Pt. 1)
Yeah, I know...I turned 40 at the end of May. I started writing some stuff about it, but never posted it. I've done some traveling with work, worked a lot of overtime, and have been getting out and doing things.
But an LJ friend mentioned that a lot of people are letting LJ kinda fall to the side.
So...I hope to post a couple things in the coming week.
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When I was 20, I told myself that I'd be supporting myself as a writer by the time I reached 40.
I had reason to believe this would be true. I was never one to approach something with half an effort. I did what was necessary for me to become good, and then kept pushing until I figured out where my place was in doing the things that mattered most to me.
The first thing I ever wrote with publication in mind sold. There were times of hit and miss after that first sale, but I believed in my abilities. I came close to "the big sale" a couple times. I'm not talking about something little; I'm talking about standing on the edge of two six-figure deals. Not that the money would have meant I was good. Just having my stuff seriously considered at that level told me that I had the potential to make it.
Then, somewhere along the way, I stopped trying so hard.
I bought into the whole, "You need to get more serious about a real job," stuff. I started looking at my 20-year goal as something that was just the dream of a 20-year-old kid.
I started telling myself that it didn't matter if I made it writing by the time I reached 40. I told myself that I needed to focus more on my job, and if writing happened, good...but if it didn't, that I was doing the right thing.
The closer I got to 40, the more I tried defending the past, and making up excuses:
There were the two years spent watching my sister die.
There were the years dealing with the pituitary tumor.
There were relationship problems.
There were more problems with the pituitary tumor.
There were conflicts between doing what I wanted to focus on (writing), and what I felt I had to give more time (a truly decent job).
But writers write, no matter what. While I did write during those hard times, I didn't write enough.
At 39, I gave myself one more year. If I didn't have certain writing goals done, I'd make some big changes in my life so that I could do what I love...what I've wanted to do for more than half my life.
Each month in that last year of my 30s, it was like watching a giant clock ticking away toward silence. I changed my goals along the way, trying to convince myself that it was okay that the big goal, the smaller goal after that, and the even smaller goal after that were all okay.
In May of this year, I felt like I let myself down. I did let myself down--no doubt about it. I spent the days racing toward May 26--the day I'd turn 40--bummed.
Then, several days before my birthday, that all changed...
But an LJ friend mentioned that a lot of people are letting LJ kinda fall to the side.
So...I hope to post a couple things in the coming week.
-------------------------------------------------------
When I was 20, I told myself that I'd be supporting myself as a writer by the time I reached 40.
I had reason to believe this would be true. I was never one to approach something with half an effort. I did what was necessary for me to become good, and then kept pushing until I figured out where my place was in doing the things that mattered most to me.
The first thing I ever wrote with publication in mind sold. There were times of hit and miss after that first sale, but I believed in my abilities. I came close to "the big sale" a couple times. I'm not talking about something little; I'm talking about standing on the edge of two six-figure deals. Not that the money would have meant I was good. Just having my stuff seriously considered at that level told me that I had the potential to make it.
Then, somewhere along the way, I stopped trying so hard.
I bought into the whole, "You need to get more serious about a real job," stuff. I started looking at my 20-year goal as something that was just the dream of a 20-year-old kid.
I started telling myself that it didn't matter if I made it writing by the time I reached 40. I told myself that I needed to focus more on my job, and if writing happened, good...but if it didn't, that I was doing the right thing.
The closer I got to 40, the more I tried defending the past, and making up excuses:
There were the two years spent watching my sister die.
There were the years dealing with the pituitary tumor.
There were relationship problems.
There were more problems with the pituitary tumor.
There were conflicts between doing what I wanted to focus on (writing), and what I felt I had to give more time (a truly decent job).
But writers write, no matter what. While I did write during those hard times, I didn't write enough.
At 39, I gave myself one more year. If I didn't have certain writing goals done, I'd make some big changes in my life so that I could do what I love...what I've wanted to do for more than half my life.
Each month in that last year of my 30s, it was like watching a giant clock ticking away toward silence. I changed my goals along the way, trying to convince myself that it was okay that the big goal, the smaller goal after that, and the even smaller goal after that were all okay.
In May of this year, I felt like I let myself down. I did let myself down--no doubt about it. I spent the days racing toward May 26--the day I'd turn 40--bummed.
Then, several days before my birthday, that all changed...