This again? Seriously? Didn’t we just do this?
Well, that number sure isn’t getting any smaller, now, is it?
The good news is, I’m not freaking out … you know, like I did when I turned 40. Quite the contrary, in fact. I’ve taken stock of things and I’m OK with 45.
Is my day job something I’m thrilled with? No, but I’ve reconciled myself with it. It’s a good fit for my family at this point in our lives. It’s a decent paycheck, it provides us with health insurance, it’s an easy gig, nice environment, the hours are very reasonable, I listen to iTunes all day, I’m only 20 minutes away from my house, and I can come and go pretty much as I please and work from home when I need to.
Because of this work arrangement, I have been able to remain hugely involved in my children’s lives thus far … which is when they have most needed me to be hugely involved in their lives. Yes, this has been to the detriment of my writing endeavors … but I realize now that focusing on fatherhood rather than on my writing pursuits was not an obligation I was forced into honoring; it was a decision I made … even if I didn’t realize it at the time. If it felt like an obligation rather than a choice, it’s only because I can’t imagine not prioritizing the things I chose to prioritize.
My father, by his own admission, wishes he spent more time with me and my siblings when we were youngsters. I will never know what that regret feels like, and my children will have a childhood filled with memories of their father being a constant presence in their lives.
So I’m OK with 45.
What I’m not OK with, however, is the thought of hitting 50 and looking around to find that everything in my life is the same as it was when I turned 45. If it is, then that also will be due to the choices I make between now and then.
There have been moments — long spans of time, actually — during the past five years when I’ve felt like my dream of a writing career is a silly fantasy that I need to let go of. Feeling like that has sucked. So fuck that.
The next five years are going to be about finding some balance between being a family man and being a writer. They’re going to be about making writing a regular part of my life again, and about tackling — and completing — some writing projects I’ve thus far relegated to the confines of my imagination, under the heading “Someday, Maybe.”
They’re going to be about taking some chances to find out if I can make this dream a reality … because, in the same way that I can’t imagine not having prioritized my role as a father in recent years, I also can’t imagine not making a serious attempt at carving out a writing career in the years ahead.
So “Someday, Maybe” starts now. That’s my birthday present to myself.
Happy Birthday to me.