Thirty-something is a good place to be. Maybe I’ll just stay thirty-something forever–at least in my mind, anyway.
In my late teens I thought I had everything figured out. But, of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. In my twenties, I finally realized that I didn’t know a damn thing about where my life was headed–not anything profound, anyway. And it bothered me immensely. The meaning of life, so it would seem, would forever elude me.
Now, fast forward to thirty-something. I still haven’t figured out the meaning of life. But I’m at a point where I’m not so sure that’s such a bad thing. The not knowing–sometimes that’s the wonder of it all. I try to live each day in the here and now, and I’m a much happier person for it.
That doesn’t mean I don’t have hopes and dreams for the future. Of course I do. I have goals and aspirations everyday of becoming a published novelist. But that as-of-yet unrealized ambition doesn’t change the fact that right now, as I sit here, I am a writer. Published or not, the only person who can take that designation away from me is me. And I know one day the publishing part will come. It may not come until the second or third leg of my thirty-somethings, but I’ll be content while I wait.