I am struggling with who I am, who I want to be and I am nearly 40. That’s the latest mantra in my mind. My desire to be a writer, to be a lawyer, to be truly great at something is getting lost somewhere in the shuffle because I refuse to do the day-to-day. I rather indulge in fantasies like winning a Trillion dollars (who does that?) than sitting my butt down and creating something new. It’s easier to dream and imagine but so much more difficult to create (except for tension).
So I approach being 39 with some dread because I have to answer to myself. I happen to find a list of things I wanted to accomplish by the time I was 40 and was disappointed to see that I had managed only 5 out of 50, but then it hit me that the others did not matter to me as much. I need new goals, new things to achieve. Actually, that is a lie, I only have one goal now: to be a published writer. Too often, I have made excuses, too often have I blamed others, too often I sit at this desk and write about wanting to write but then write nothing of value. Too often, and so instead of a new years resolution, I made a birthday one: WRITE.
No matter what. Write. Write lists, write journal, write morning pages, write something, anything. Just keep that pen moving (well in my case fingers over the keyboard). I can’t help feeling like Bruce Lee in Enter The Dragon during the mirror sequence. I am surrounded by versions of myself but each of me partially hidden by my image while I look for the elusive antagonist (in this case, The Writer). And with a loud Kiyaaahh, I shall break those mirrors, break what’s holding me back, break into a new kind of Bruce Lee, the kind that kicks ass with words rather than kicks.