Happy Blahday

Another birthday. Another year older. I remember birthdays as a kid were so exciting. It wasn't so much the gifts, it was more about just having a special day all to yourself. Your one day a year you could call your own. May 12th. That date used to have such meaning. Such power. Now it's just another day. But the power I always associated with that date never completely went away. There's still a slight residue there, a niggling feeling something special should happen. But it never does anymore.

I had taken the day off from work, to spend it at my daughter's school. Today was their track and field day. She was very excited, and I was excited for her. She means everything to me. But it was rained out. We needed the rain, no doubt about that. But it meant I spent the day accomplishing nothing.

But I have had some time to think. And I have resolved to myself that before I see another birthday, I will have finished writing my book. Goddammit, I have to accomplish something in my life! Because if I don't, what was the point of it? I don't want to look back on a string of wasted years. Wasted years of dreaming of doing something, instead of just doing it.

When I was a kid, all I thought about was being a writer. I figured that by 35, I would have at least one good thick novel out. Now, 35 seems like a lifetime ago. And aside from a handful of poems published in some small publications, I have nothing to show for it. I need to focus all of my attention on my writing.

Up to now, I've just been tinkering around with it, working on the outline, trying to flesh out some characters, but haven't done much real writing. It's like I keep finding excuses not to write it:

• I haven't found my voice.
• I haven't completely figured out the storyline.
• What should the narrative structure be?
• The characters are still too ambiguous.
  
• I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing.

When what I really need to do is just write--and not give a shit what it looks like.