
Late to the Party
Later this year, I’ll turn 46 years old.
I was probably 40 years old by the time it dawned on me that I wanted to be a writer. Initially, I was ecstatic with the thought of writing for a living. Being so new at something felt thrilling. To get to be a beginner all over again. And then, after a few years of writing a little of this and a little that, it occurred to me that I’m not very good. And I don’t mean this in a self-deprecating way. I mean, in a very practical sense, I didn’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I never made it past high school, so not only do I not remember anything I learned there, but I never attended college or a writing class where I might have learned some new things. For instance, I don’t have a fucking clue where I would use a semi-colon. And I only vaguely know how to use a colon. Preposition? No idea. Conjugation? Are you kidding me? What about passive voice? I got nothing.
You get the point. I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me because I don’t know how to write “properly.” I just don’t know what I’m doing. Buuuuuut, I also don’t care that much. I’m hoping like hell that ample life experience plus an ability to out-suffer and out-work all the smart kids is enough for me to make it as a writer.
Who knows, I could be in for a hell of a disappointment.
I was at the doctor’s office earlier today and thumbing through a past issue of Garden and Gun when I came across a beautiful essay written by David Joy. It was a personal story about the connection he has with his dog and how they both find release from anxiety and loneliness in their relationship. It’s a great story. It was so good that I instantly felt horrible about my own writing ability — not just my knowledge of writing lexicon, but my actual writing. David seems to possess a natural talent that transported me to a time and place. I was there with him and his dog Chaz. I walked on their farm and rode in the truck with them. Emotionally, David Joy knows how to carry me places with him. I’m not sure I can do that with my writing. Not yet, anyway.
And that, my friends, is my point. I’m 45. David Joy is ~35. In addition to writing wonderful short stories or essays or whatever the fuck they are, he’s written four novels and won several awards that if I knew how important they were, I’d likely be super jealous.
I feel late to the game. I don’t know if I have enough time to become the kind of writer I hope like hell I am. I feel sure it’s deep down in me, but I think it takes time to coax it out. To let down all the guards that keep something beautiful inside of you.
I love writing more than most things in life.
I just don’t want to be too late.
photo cred: Chad Prevost
