It was my birthday this week. Guess what I got?
Sigh. That just feels obnoxiously scripted y’know?
They did hit me a bit harder than usual though. Not because they came on my birthday– well, not exactly. See, when I started writing around seven years ago, I had this vague goal of having a book out by forty. And, well, no book as yet.
Thing is, goals like that are stupid. Since I’m not self-publishing, I don’t have enough control over the process for that goal to be useful. A better one would have been something like– write ten books by 4o. That’s an achievable, useful goal that isn’t tied to a lot of things outside of my control. Instead of the one I chose when I had no idea how complicated this whole writing thing was.
Anyway, I recovered fairly quickly. I have to say, I’m just not very good at wallowing in my angst. Whenever I try I end up getting bored and wandering off into plot ideas. So instead, I guess I’ll try to figure out a goal for fifty.
Screw it, why not thirty? After a decade, I’ll probably be up for another wallow.