It’s not one of the big ones, but not exactly small one either. I guess I’m officially middle-aged now (whatever that means) even though most of the time I still feel like I’m 19, pretending to be older than I am, and any minute someone is going to find out I’m not really an adult, just faking it to get by.
I’m not going to lie, this last year’s been a little rough. I’ve been unemployed for most of it, which does not do anything positive for one’s self worth, especially when half of our ruling class considers my misfortune not just a character flaw, but a personal insult, and wishes I would just quietly die in a gutter somewhere rather than commit the mortal sin of drawing unemployment benefits.And while you shouldn’t let a bunch of jackasses define how you feel about yourself, there are moments when you wonder if all the hard work of the last decade was really worth it when you’re pretty much in the same place you were when you were 25.
But this year will be different. I’m working on becoming self-employed through my writing, which means that if we do end up living in the street in a box, It’ll at least be a spacious, ranch-style box with a nice view of the underpass.
Honestly, though, I’ve sold a dozen copies of the new edition of my first novel, all without doing any promotion other than occasionally shouting at people on Twitter. Imagine what I could do if, say, I sold a novel and had some real marketing weight to push my name out there?
I’m working on that, among other things. So 35 will be a better year. And secretly, despite the crippling bouts of self-doubt, 34 wasn’t exactly horrible. I had a roof over my head, a wife who loves me and two cats who think I’m a dashing wit, at least when I feed them on time.
So, Happy Birthday to Me!