Do you remember when you were a little kid in elementary school and you loved to write stories, especially those you could illustrate yourself? I do. And then something happened. Something called SCHOOL, or at least SCHOOL for real, which meant that writing fiction was a frivolous pursuit. After all, one had to learn to write non-fiction in its various forms for this test or that test. Not too much has changed, has it?
My mom wrote in my baby book that I wrote my first story at the tender age of three. I have no recollection of the story, but I know my mom must have been proud since she felt it significant enough to write about it.
I received the book sometime in late ’96 after her death from cancer. And that was twenty-one years ago. So much has happened during that time in a speed that defies memory. This scares me. It scares me enough that I woke up a few mornings ago to realize that I have passed the midpoint in life.
And in the past twenty-one years, I have gotten married, had a son, published fiction, bought a house, had a few health scares of my own, and grown disenchanted with the J.O.B., or just ordinary bullshit, as I like to refer to it. I no longer have a type A personality, but still flounder between B and C. Life for a while seemed like a highway between points A, B, and C. And I wonder how much authentic living I have done these past twenty-one years. So much seems a blur, and that upsets me.
Why have I given so much time to a daily pursuit for a paycheck? Okay, so yes, I am suffering a bit of burnout. But the road to retirement is long. And I think the best way to move forward is not to look backward, but to write through it.
So come join me as I talk about writing, reading, and living through a time that feels a bit like a Twilight episode. Leave me notes and say hello!
Fondly,
JMonell
Meandering Through Midlife 