Turning Forty

 My Facebook peeps already know about this, and you're being awesome, I assure you. But this is gonna be a thing with me, and I'm sorry. But it is.

This song, by the Arrogant Worms, has been a favorite of mine for many, many years, but I have never felt it quite as deeply in my sads as I do this year. I did not accomplish much. Anything, really. But I didn't die this year, which (what number are we up to? 350,000 Covid-19 deaths?) lots and lots of people can't say.

Y'all know I can gripe about being underemployed. That has shifted in a direction, but still remains in force. I can gripe about being single, although some days, the more men I talk to, the better I feel about being single/Never married, because I just. . . some people's exes. . . I feel for them. Solidarity, sisters.

And then there's the "happy Mormon" option of counting blessings/vomiting gratitude. I mean - I have no problems with happiness, and seriously NO problems with gratitude! It's amazing, when it's genuine, but for me, I have to feel this before I can feel that. So I'm dodging that cliche right now.

I still want to write. I'm more than halfway done with my life, and I'm still clinging to a dream that grows smaller and smaller in the distance with every year. Online, there are thousands of people who want to sell you the secret to making a living with writing, and the secret is that they don't make a living writing, they make a living selling bogus secrets to people who don't know how to use money responsibly.

All of my friends have written something. Most of them have published something. A few of them are making a living with their writing in sometimes complicated and convoluted ways. My dissertation advisor still wants me to publish chapters of my dissertation. My mother occasionally sends me projects to write. My roommate/boss/best friend sends me editing projects.

There's something in my every day existence that stops me. There are always too many other things to be done, things I promised people that I would do. There are church callings, or household tasks (a requirement of my current situation), or sometimes (when I'm lucky) a bit of earning money. There are chickens to keep alive, and plants to keep alive, and there is ALWAYS something more immediate than writing. Always. People are more important. Living things are more important. 

My dreams of writing full-time mean nothing to anybody but me, and so I put them in the freezer where they take up space on my conscience and in my cortisol, and meanwhile this balance I've nearly accomplished isn't even sustainable, and will expire soon. And I'm turning forty.

When do I admit that I'm another failure, just like so many, many, many pathetic pulp characters? When do I tell God that I know he wants me to write, but I just can't, because he's given me too many other things to do? Too many other feelings? That I inherited my mother's damned need to be self-sacrificing and do the right thing? (Seriously, if I'm going to inherit something, that's not a bad one. You should see what she got from her mother).

I'm so happy when I'm writing, and then I hate everything I've done and want to burn it all. I know I have some small talent, but it takes like fifty different talents to be a writer, and suddenly in the 21st century, you're supposed to market yourself, too. That's too much mountain for my faith. I don't buy, and I don't sell. I just tell my stupid little truths.

I'm turning forty, and I've broken my own heart. And there are a handful of songs, and another handful of stories that flit through my mind as I try on every position and persona.

And here's the note I want to end this blog post on: Whatever I become, at forty, fifty, sixty, and dead, I will have made myself with my everyday decisions. I make decisions out of love - sometimes it's misplaced, and sometimes it's clumsy, and sometimes it's very, very late (sorry Nichole!), but I don't begrudge love, and I won't tarnish what I give by regretting what I am becoming.

Thank-you for letting me become. Thank-you for leading by example, and for walking with me. I hope we'll see us a long while yet. Take care of yourself and those around you. Wear a mask. Don't kiss your chickens (salmonella).