I feel like the writer who doesn’t actually write. Throughout the day I find myself saying Ha! I really should write about that, but then it’s time to get ready for ballet, pick up something for dinner, or clean up the dog poop pile by the front door. I get interrupted and these interruptions translate into months of not writing at all.
Growing up, I had certain ideas of what I’d like to be doing by this stage of my life-some were a little crazier than others; being a spy for the CIA, for example. But one has remained constant, and that is to be living the life of a writer. Published novels, stacks of papers strewn about, cups of half-finished coffee sitting next to my laptop…I picture myself in the future living by the beach known as “that eccentric old lady with the mismatched socks and crazy hairdo.” I suppose we all have dreams, right? And some of us, more than others, let the doubt creep in and take over to the point that we don’t actually write due to fear of rejection. I’ve been doing that for years.
My kids are growing up-my oldest will be 22 this year, the youngest will be 12. I feel like time has eaten most of my good parts and left me to wonder what could have been if I had only put in the effort and braved through all the self-doubt. It would have been good for my kids to see that…but, playing the ‘what if’ game does no one any favors.
I turned 42 a week ago and didn’t enjoy it one bit. The day itself was alright-I enjoyed a pedicure, picked up some makeup that needed replacing…but mentally, it was tough. I’m not where I want to be and only I can change that. My husband is always gone due to work obligations and for that I feel tremendous guilt. He’s missing out on the kids’ day to day antics and me-he’s missing out on me. I worry about his health and peace of mind. I think about the bike rides we could be enjoying together and trips we should be taking as a family. But his sacrifices keep the lights on, the kids in ballet and guitar lessons, and me in my cute little black car.
So what do I do to invoke the changes I desire? I really don’t know. I feel like my 18-year-old Navy son has grown smarter than I in that he has already set upon his own path. He knows what he wants and is working to accomplish his goals while I let life pass me by. It’s certainly a hit to the ‘ol ego, I’ll tell you.
Maybe all is not lost. I guess this is me giving myself a pep talk. I would really love to have those old lady mismatched sock days and there’s nothing written in stone saying I can’t, right? It would be even better to have my little old man wearing his pulled up too high pants beside me. What a picture we’d be.
Write. Write. Write. Right?