I turned 41 the other day. No age at all to someone like my dad who's 66 or my mother who's 73, but an old bastard to a 20 year old. And no, this isn't one of those wanky posts to moan about getting older. I'm fine with thinking that being 20 or 25 and even 30 is a way behind me now. Those ages may not feel that long ago, but let's face it, 41 isn't a kid.
And that's fine with me.
If you'd told me at 21 that two decades later, I still wouldn't be writing full-time, that I wouldn't really be any more of a success with writing and publishing seven years after my first book was released than at any point before it, and that there's close to zero indication of that situation changing. . .I would have wondered what the point was of spending so long and investing so much in time in making up stories. Whether or not I would have carried on investing that time, I can't say for sure, obviously. I think I would have, but who knows?
Writing, telling stories, making shit up - it's the only thing I'm good at. And that's not blowing my own trumpet; it's what I've come to realise after doing it for so long. I'm happy doing it. If it goes nowhere and if I'm writing another post along these lines in twenty years, then so be it. And if the main difference I can see between the 41 year old writing this and the 20 year old who'd be furious to know he's still not a success is the grey in my beard, then that's what I've got.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got stories to tell.