via GIPHY
- a post by Jeanna Mason Stay
Next week is my birthday. I’ll be 37, which is exciting if
you like prime numbers but less fun if you prefer to have lots of factors in
your age (like 36, which is fantastic—1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9, 12, 18, 36!). If you
multiple 37 by 3, however, you do get a cool number (111), so it’s not all bad.
Plus, it gives you the opportunity to be geeky about numbers, which is always a
bonus.
Anyway, I think it’s about time for an early midlife crisis,
but I just don’t know what direction to take that (except, of course,
rearranging all the furniture in my house and trying to toss half of my
belongings, but since that happens regularly, it doesn’t really count).
When I think about my age and writing, though, I can’t help
but think of many/most of my favorite authors. Shannon Hale and Brandon
Sanderson are both only a few years older than me. They’ve been publishing
waaaaaay longer than I have (since, technically, I still haven’t!). Kate
DiCamillo published Because of Winn Dixie
when she was 36ish. We won’t go on and on, because that would be depressing. I
guess the point is that it sure doesn’t feel like I’m doing much with my
writing career.
At the same time, I’m quite aware that their career paths are
just not for me. But then I think, “Maybe it’s because I’m just not a hard
enough worker” (totally true), “Maybe I’m not talented” (hopefully not true), blah
blah blah. I dither a lot. In the end, pretty much the only reasonable
conclusion on this topic is Comparison = Bad.
So instead of comparisons, it seems like a good idea to
think about the things I have done this year with writing.
I’ve written a bunch of short stories and flash fiction, two
of which are going into anthologies relatively soon. I’ve participated in a
flash fiction competition, which has been delightfully fun so far. I won the
Mormon Lit Blitz this year. (Yay!) I won a Beginning of Book contest. I was
given a great opportunity that is still terrifying the pants off me (and I am
therefore stalling!)
I tried writing several stories that I wasn’t good enough to
write yet. One of them turned out well. Some turned out okay anyway, though not
amazing. One of them crashed and is still burning. I’m planning on pulling out
the fire extinguisher and trying again. In trying things I wasn’t ready for, I
got (hopefully) just a teensy bit better.
I started out the year with a goal of writing every single
day. That goal also crashed and burned around August, but that was still pretty
good for me. I went farther on that than I had previously, and I still write
many days, though not even close to all.
I taught a writing class to a group of awesome teens, and as
part of that, I put together an anthology of their awesome writing. It was an
insane amount of work, but it turned out so fun, and I’m so glad I did it. I
learned a lot about how anthologies work, how hard it is to put things in an
order that makes sense and flows, and a lot of mishmash of stuff that I may
never need to know again.
I discovered how much I love short fiction. I’m learning how
it gives me most of the joy of writing, which is a big part of why I write in
the first place. But it comes with far fewer of the bouts of angst, suffering,
agony, and self-doubt that novel-writing has done in the past. So I’ve not given
up on novels, but I am definitely loving the change of pace.
And none of this even touches on the sheer awesomeness that
is each of my kids, which is a whole different topic.
Looking back, I’m really happy about writing this year, even
though it still isn’t what I had planned on. I won some, lost some, grew and
changed a lot. Another time I’ll start thinking about goals for the coming
year, but for now, I think I’ll just relish where I’ve been. I’ll never catch
up to my author crushes, but I think maybe I’ll find a place where I’m happy
being me.
