I won my first writing contest when I was 8 years old. It was a cute little poem about my dog. I was published at 18, and went on to have a steady string of minor publications for the next 10 years or so.
It has been my life’s goal to make my living as a writer. I did not factor in an illness that would lay me so low it would literally carve decades out of my ambition without – quite – killing me.
Looking around now, taking stock of what’s left of my ambition, I find myself closer to 50 than not. This is the age when most are starting to really consider retirement and giving the hairy eyeball to their IRA. Stephen King’s first novel was published when he was 27. Interview with the Vampire? Anne Rice was 35. Charlotte Bronte? She was 31 when Jane Eyre was published.
At my age my career should be firmly established, my name should be well known and I should be enjoying a comfortable income. I should be, but I’m not. Instead I still dwell in relative obscurity, still dreaming of one day getting published.
Damn. Who does this when they’re 47?
This is what I woke up thinking today. And wouldn’t you know it? I ran across this article the moment I turned on my computer. I like this a lot. He’s got a great style, and it’s obvious he’s comfortable in non-fiction. Anyone who blogs can (hopefully) say the same. But to make the jump to a published novelist?
Yes. He can, I can. So can you. GO WRITE!