I've wanted to be a novelist for over twenty years. I've made several attempts that could only be called half-hearted, at best. A bunch of aborted stories. One dreadful full-length manuscript that was embarrassingly derivative. Several rough drafts that even made it into the digital marketplace. But, none were true efforts. None had my body and soul in them. None had my blood, sweat, or tears.
Now, perhaps a little wiser, definitely quite a bit older, I'm trying again.
I am at the age where I must admit that, statistically speaking, I have more life behind me than I have in front of me. Don't get me wrong. I fully intend to be a statistical aberration, the world's first two-hundred-year-old man. But, if I'm playing the averages, I'm on the downslope.
Being on the downslope means I'm picking up speed.
Picking up speed means... I'm running out of time.
Sure, there's always time. It's never too late to follow your dreams. I fully believe and support that. If we spend even just our last day on Earth following our dream, it will be a day well-spent.
But, I want more than that. I want time to enjoy the work, to enjoy the process, and, hopefully, to enjoy the fruits of that process. I have always dreamed of the freedom that writing brings, both externally and internally. Perfect world, odds stacked against, etc., but the dream has lasted this long, outliving a lot of other dreams. I've never really chased any of them.
Now is the time.
This blog will chronicle my progress toward that dream, step by step.
There goes the future.