One of my friends, a co-worker and pseudo-manager, has just taken a job as a Director of Marketing at a large, national, oil-field services company. Combine this with a story I read (here) about an eleven year old who is starting in on his second fantasy novel, having just finished having his first published, and you have a recipe for self-reflection, angst, and regret.
I read Stephen King's On Writing several months ago and was surprised to learn that as a young child he not only wrote voraciously, but he also submitted stories for publication. I think he started in his early teens. He has been refining the craft of writing for decades and decades. Seemingly he has done little else. My work friend had a similar story. When I worked with him I was amazed by how driven he was. How could anyone be so focused on hazardous waste and industrial cleaning?
Throughout my life I've lacked the necessary seriousness to take my career to the next level. In the Army, all of my comrades were there striving for purpose and long careers, I was there for fun. Now, many of them are contractors, pilots or better in the Army. The remains of the five different jobs that I've had over the past ten years seems to point to a lack of seriousness in my professional career. It's only now, almost 40, despite having written to varying degrees throughout my life, that I've become at all serious about writing.
That makes me what? 30 years behind Stephen King's power curve. So I should expect fame in riches when I'm 80. Bully for me!
No comments:
Post a Comment