I’ve made it 31 years so far, today. It’s odd how looking back I can remember standing there looking at my 8-year-old feet, my hands, peering out from 8-year-old eyes without the beginning of crow’s feet spreading softly, so many years later. I can look forward, too, to see my mother’s hands becoming mine in 20 more years. I feel as incredulous now as I know I will then, wondering what happened to all that time. Wondering how on earth all of this could possibly end.
I keep running into the writerly road block, the one that says I was supposed to be successful so much earlier. The one that makes you feel like a failure, no matter how many times you publish something or someone tells you you have talent. Some people call it drive, but we all know it’s just desperation. How can you be successful when you sit on your ass and do nothing, lamenting the wasted time that you are wasting that very second? The best solution to all of this, I’ve found, is just to have a sense of humor. We’re all in the same boat, people. Pick up an oar once in a while.
Love, to all of you.