I'm sure anyone reading this blog post has had the experience of time collapsing on them. You know what I mean, right? When you realize that only the other day you were starting a new job, or buying a new car, or sending your child off to school for the first time, only to realize that these events happened a year ago, or five years ago, or maybe ten and suddenly more years have passed you by than you realized.
I'm having this feeling a lot really. I started with the anniversary of the Challenger disaster about a month ago. I remember exactly where I was when I heard that news because I've always been a fan of the space program and believe humanity's future lies in space, if not now, eventually. Worse still, I don't believe people should be dying for this effort. We need to ensure the space crafts we build are safe and don't explode. So when the shuttle blew up I was very sad mourned the loss of the seven astronauts who died needlessly.
But while I can relive those moments as clearly as eating yesterday's lunch, the disaster was 25 years ago and that gave me pause. I had to stop and think where did those years ago? The answer was easy: I was living my life. In those years I was buying my house, dating and marrying my wife. And, of course, inventing the plot that would eventually become the fantasy series I'm writing now.
A lot has happened to me in those years. My father and my two remaining grandparents passed away and so did some very dear friends. I spent my years ignoring my writing only to rediscover it with a passion. I went from being in debt with student loans to being completely out of debt (aside from my mortgage). And I traveled to different parts of the country, partly for my education, and partly in the search of employment.
But what bothers me about this is not that time has collapsed on me, but that 25 years is a good slice of time and it is gone. More and more, as I write and tell my stories, I feeling like I've finally put together all the elements I need to write well and successfully. But this feeling only serves to remind me that the sand is falling through the hourglass at an accelerated rate. I heard the cries of the valkyries circling over head like vultures and look for the harbinger of some unfortunate events approaching, fearing that I will not finish my work in the time allotted to me.
I panic. I cry. I shake my fists in anger that life itself is so unfair. No sooner do I figure out what I want to do and how to do it then I run out of time to do it. It is very frustrating.
Sorry. I'm just ranting here. I know that all I need do is focus on my work and it will be complete to the best of my ability. All my false starts serve to help me not make those mistakes in the future.
Sometimes, however, I wish there was a Dummies book on writing and life to help show us the way.
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