So I'm starting this blog just after my 54th birthday. Fifty freakin' four years old. How the hell did I get here?
Well, turns out, Father Time didn't cut me any slack.
Somehow, when I was younger, I thought he would. Somehow, based on absolutely no evidence, I thought I was special. I thought I could while away the hours and still have an almost unending supply before me when I needed them. I thought the whole merciless passage of minutes and months that compresses other lives wouldn't really apply to me.
Obviously, I didn't consciously believe this. But the idea was still there, embedded somewhere in my brain. And I sure lived as if I had all the time in the world.
So now, all those seconds have piled up, and suddenly, a half century has slipped by. A whole life has been lived. A good life. Blessings have been bestowed where they have not been deserved. And I am truly grateful for that.
But all the books I thought by now I would have written, all the stories that have swirled in my head for decades, still exist only as wispy writer wannabes.
Except, that is, for one story—a love story—split into two books. I started writing it not long ago, and it's out there now, trying to make its way in the world, trying to find readers who will respond to it. If you've read the story of Keegan and Blue, tell me what you think! Good or bad, I crave the feedback.
Another book—another love story—will soon join Tangled Up in Blue and Shelter from the Storm. Book Three is called You Belong to Me. If you're wondering if it's a coincidence that all the books in my Ikana College series have Bob Dylan songs as titles...uh, no. It's not. I'll talk about why in a later post.
For now, I'm trying to write like crazy, hoping to excavate all the tales that have burrowed deep in my brain and bring them to life on a screen or page while I still can. I'm a more disciplined writer—I think, I hope—than I would have been when I was younger. I'm certainly more aware of the hands on the clock ticking by. Figuratively, of course, as I don't even own one of those kind of clocks anymore.
Father Time didn't wait for me, after all. He didn't cut me any slack. In fact, I've finally discovered what everyone does, sooner or later: Time can be a real asshole. Best to grab him by the balls and refuse to let go.
When she was in her thirties, Virginia Woolf wrote in her diary a note of encouragement to her future "elderly" self (meaning over 50): "Greetings! my dear ghost; and take heed that I don’t think 50 a very great age. Several good books can be written still; and here’s the bricks for a fine one."
I'm praying she's right...