Where I am today is not where I dreamed of being by now.
Then, when I was 20, I imagined myself being an established writer within the next four years. I had put in hours upon hours of writing and rewriting. I had submitted manuscripts, collections of poetry, and the occasional short story. In the time I wasn’t writing, I was reading just about an author that had published younger, who had been canonized, or who had been vehemently against the literary canon. And when I wasn’t reading or writing, I was living the life of a “writer” -- which included, but was not limited to, drinking in solitude, brooding, exploring different cities alone, drinking with friends, drinking until I became irrational, brash, or reckless, embracing moments of intimacy as they happened, ruminating, and pushing through the ongoing struggles I faced, whether it was my deteriorating mental health or the increasing debt that I’d buried myself in all in the pursuit of living a life I thought was worth living.
I never anticipated on being conventional. It’s simply not something that aligned with me, even at a young age.
There was nothing I wanted more, even now, than to have a house of my own, away from the city, near the ocean, or even a lake, where I could write and be at peace. I’d have a cat named Hank and a husky named Kurt. I’d sit on my porch, drink coffee, and listening to the soft sound of jazz playing through the record player. In the evenings, I’d take walks along the coast. Or I’d drive into town, head to the local bar, where’d I’d sit in the small tavern and talk with those who had grown to know me. The mornings, I’d sit at my writing desk, watch the sunrise, and breathe in the fresh salted air of spring along the coastline.
And I imagined all of this occurring by the time I’d hit my thirties.
All the hard work and long hours I’d put into writing during my early twenties would pay off. I’d land that book contract. Have my big break by the age of twenty-four. Be renowned while still young, like Hemingway, or McCullers, or Kerouac. Make enough money to afford this small dream cabin along the coast of mine. Be able to retreat and live on my own terms.
It was simple, or so I thought.
Life often doesn’t go the way we plan it.
It’s a hard lesson to learn. One that never gets easier, no matter how many times we’re disappointed by the outcome of things.
I’m 25 now and turning 26 in the week to come.
Though I’m still relatively young in the grand scheme of things, I’ve constant anxiety over my time running out. At times, there’s a great fear that swells within me over how much there’s left that I’d like to do, or how many places I’d like to travel to still. How I’d like to have a space of my own, in the place where I’ll find myself for the next ten years or so, if not longer.
Or how I’d like to learn more skills or hone ones I already have. How I’d like to write at least one novel in my lifetime, and a short story collection, and another collection of poetry. How I’d like to get my master’s, and maybe teach college. How I’d like to earn another degree in filmmaking, and maybe make a move. The list goes on…
But I’m turning twenty-six, and I’m in a hell of a lot of debt, and I just landed my first “career” job, and I’ve to move into a housing situation that’s unfavorable, and most days, following work, I’m too burned out to write, and my weekends are too short with too much going on, and I feel as though I’ve stepped into a hamster wheeling that spins on and on and on and on and on and…
Yet, there’s something that I’ve been trying to reassure myself of. Some old mantra that I’ve been trying to rework into my life: “I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them. I shall use my time.” Jack London said this. And I think it’d do us all good to same them aloud every now and again.
“I shall use my time.”
The thing is, we have both an abundance of time and no time at all. A day, at times, can be condensed into a few early hours of the morning, when the alcohol has taken hold of everyone, and you're sitting alone, still drinking, contemplating life, sulking about love, or just simply drinking. Or, a day can feel like an entire weekend when you wake up early, cook yourself a nice breakfast with coffee, read for an hour, write for an hour, go for a walk, come back, read some more, go to lunch with a friend, buy a book, etc., etc., etc…
The length of a day, while it certainly has a measure limited by hours, is determined by the decisions we make within that day. What we do in each hour can delay the sense of waste, which often comes when we rest our heads after a long day of work followed by an evening of staring at the blank wall, or, worse, our cell phones.
The plans we make for our future, whether it be a year later or ten years later, depends on the actions we take today. It seems like such a simple concept, yet how often do we find ourselves victims of wasted time? For me, it’s more than I care to admit.
I’ll be twenty-six soon, and I’m not near where I thought I’d be by now. There’s a lot of struggle and fail that I must endure, must learn from, before I reach where I believe I’d like to be. Even then, that ideal cabin on the coast might change. For now, I can only act on each day. Like Jack London, “I shall use my time.”
And so far, from the time I have used, I’ve managed a handful of publications, and one book contract.
It may not be a big break or that first great novel. But it’s something. A foot in the right direction. The grains of time flowing in the right direction.
A beginning.
