When I was about 8 years old, I wrote a story at school which featured an old man, aged 50. I remember how mortified my 50 something year old grandfather was when he read the story. Fast forward, thirty five odd years, and I realize why my grandfather reacted the way he did.
I was a sensitive child, who grew into a hypersensitive teenager. I used my intelligence and leadership qualities to wander aimlessly around the paddock of my high school. Like a sheep, I followed bad shepherds, experimented with substances, jigged classes, and played around with some criminal activity until finally dropping out. Working to finance binge drinking seemed like a better option. I had no idea what I was doing with my life.
Fast forward thirty years, and sometimes I still wonder what on earth I am doing. I am driven. I am ambitious. I know what I want, but I am not prepared to do whatever it takes to get it. I've been married and we have two teenagers. I have a mortgage and seven years of university education behind me. I'm working as an English language teacher. I am a published novelist, with two out and a third on the way. I am well and truly in the settled phase of my three score and ten. Yet there are still times when I feel like I am just playing a game.
I live in the tension between what is and what could be. I live in the great in between land called Earth. I live, grateful for what I have, but ever mindful of the fact that what awaits me will be so much better. In some ways I will always be that ten year old budding writer, and that directionless and selfish fifteen year old, and the newlywed, and the new dad. I am all those people, but still far from being complete.
There's so much more to my story. Thanks for reading.
And what an interesting ride it has been, right? We are the sum of all parts, good and bad. Writers have the unique opportunity to make some sense of it all. Funny about your granddad. I still remember the shock when my young grandson shouted "Grandma!" from across the store (I was in my early 40s).ReplyDelete