It's Never Too Late

Today is the day after I got the news I was being published. To many of you out there, it would be no big deal, old hat, nothing new. For me, it's the thing I've been working toward my whole life. The problem, however, is that I've been working toward it only in my head.  I've been a writer for ages, most of my life. I was always throwing something down on paper or typing. I would write about nonsensical things, I would write non-fiction, I would write stories that would never be seen by anyone other than the one holding the pages in their hands, which usually meant me. All of these things I would do, with the silent hope that I would, one day, see my name on a book jacket. Well, it's pretty hard to do that if you never submit anything for consideration.

I suppose a part of me was okay with that failure (which it was) because I never did anything to change the circumstances. Instead, I pushed the author in me down, told her to stifle it, and settled on being a writer. And that's okay. There is nothing wrong with writing for yourself, as long as it makes you happy. But I wasn't happy with that. On occasion I'd feel a twinge of guilt. Perhaps I'd pick up Stephen King's On Writing, one of my favorite books, and it would send me spiraling into a depression when I realized I'd failed myself, again. It could be something as simple as watching a film about an author, like Misery. That always got me.

Since I was a child I had wanted to be an author, to see my name on a book that was on my shelf. In the many years since childhood, I've done everything else. I have written and directed my own film, I've acted in others' films, I've acted on stage, I've sung on stage, I have written editorials, interviewed some of my favorite people in the industry, reviewed more films than I care to count, worked on a film festival, lectured to a film class, worked on four regular podcasts (still do), recorded audio stories, voice acted, edited two websites (wrangling other writers), painted, sculpted, knitted, crocheted, played competitive darts and won trophies (hey, it's a thing), but this continued to hang over my head. This one accomplishment that I'd, at this point, assumed would never come to fruition, mocked me.

Then I met Brian. Brian is an author. He saw something in me that he thought was being wasted. He couldn't understand why I'd never pursued the one thing I'd craved more than anything. When asked, I had no answer. I had no idea. Even now I have no idea what I was doing. I was content to put my energy into everything else under the sun, why not into getting published? All I had to do was submit something somewhere. Even if I was rejected, at least I was doing something. You can't complain about not accomplishing your goal if you never attempt it. To be fair, I didn't complain. I don't even think people were aware this was a desire that I harbored. But I was sad on the inside. If I died anytime soon, my epitaph would read "Well, she almost did what she wanted." As much as I am proud of my other accomplishments, they are all a part of me, let's face it, at eight years old I never said, "when I grow up I want to talk about vaginas on stage." I wanted to write.

Receiving the news yesterday that something I had written would appear in print, on paper, in a BOOK, was one of the biggest bits of news I've ever received. Like I said, to some of you it will be no big deal, and that's okay. But to me, it means that the one thing I've chastised myself for not completing my whole life, is now done. Of course I'd like to do it more.  But even if I never get accepted again, my epitaph can now read, "Whew!"

The moral of this story is simple.  Go after what you want. It won't come to you. And even if you feel that point has passed you by, if you think you've missed the opportunity, do it anyway. If you never attempt anything, you'll never achieve anything. That's not me being proverbial, that's freakin' Science. Live so you can punctuate your epitaph with an exclamation point.