I apologize for any glaring typos in this post. I wrote it mostly on the car ride to Portland this morning and am posting it from the tenth floor of the Eastland hotel as my very hot wife pours me a glass of very expensive birthday Scotch. I think the writing gods will forgive my lack of discipline tonight!
Those who know me well know that I take birthdays very seriously. Birthdays are the only holidays, if you will, of the year that are completely about you. I think it's so cool that everyone has their own special day to celebrate who they are and what they've done over the last year. You get presents, eat whatever you feel like, request guilt-free exotic favors from that special someone in your life, and--in my case--exercise a floating holiday to help get the party started.
Last year I turned thirty and had the biggest birthday of my life. Kim planned out a weekend long celebration that involved a hastily purchased pair of $40 running shorts, the best potato skins I've ever had, and a 4AM trip to a New York City McDonalds. Those bits of uncensored details may seem confusing--and perhaps a little dull--but trust me, the censored parts that fill in the gaps were legan-dary.
Turning thirty was an obvious numerological milestone, but it also seemed to line up with events in my life that made it seem more special than just a rolling of the next odometer digit. Last year I had this overwhelming sense that I was stepping out into my own for the first time, as though the last decade or so had been merely a time of preparation to get me ready to take on the world in the coming years. I think I can explain it best if I relate it to my writing.
There is a common theme in fantasy novels that I find myself drawn to both in my writing and reading. Simplified, a boy is taken from his home at a young age and hidden away somewhere (the details of how and why vary). He grows up in this strange place, learning some unique talent or skill along the way, and becomes someone stronger and better than he would have been had he stayed in his own world. At some point the boy--now all grown up--must leave behind this secret place and return home and save the world, avenge his parents, rescue the princess, or whatever struggle the plot of the novel has in store for him.
It sound a little hackneyed outlined here like this, but trust me, it works. And there is always that one scene where the hero comes down out of the mountains or steps out of the enchanted forest and is back in his own world. That's how I felt as I turned thirty last year; like I was finally climbing down from the safety of a mountain hideaway and ready to face the real world.
I thought I was ready. It has been a stressful year at work, but by the end of it, as I took some time off to celebrate my birthday, I believed I had finally earned the place in my company I had been struggling to find for years. I felt like my writing was ready to be seen and thought I had found my first real footing in the publishing world. And Kim and I were preparing to take the next step with our family, standing brave against our fear and worry about such a challenge. It was time to step up and take my place in the world.
Of course nothing went as smoothly as I had so confidently envisioned. I quickly learned a few hard truths about the creative end of corporate America. My excited confidence about my writing career turned out to be more based on illusion than fact. A personal tragedy came along and dashed so many plans Kim and I had almost taken for granted. My first few steps into the world, and I stumbled hard. All my thoughts about where I was in my life seemed foolish and naïve, and for a moment, I wondered if I should just forget all of the ambitious things I was trying to do and retreat back to those mountains.
It's funny--and I didn't realize this until a couple months ago--but this stumbling that I experienced last year is exactly how I would have written a character in a fantasy novel. The confident young man--strong, brave, and ready to take on the world single handedly--would indeed have fallen flat on his face upon meeting his first meager challenge. He would have experienced doubt and humility as the truth of the real world--one he'd been sheltered from for far too long--found him for the first time. I'd have mussed his hair and put mud on his face. In the reader's mind, he would have quickly shifted from some all powerful golden savior, coming down to save the world without breaking a sweat, to someone scared and unsure, but who finds the courage to fight on despite that. The truth is I would have written--and actually have written--a character in that way because it is so much closer to real life.
And so, in fighting past my doubts and fears--without consciously doing so--I kept to the plot of my metaphoric fantasy novel. None of the things I wanted to do were going to be as easy as they had seemed when I started out, but I trusted myself and fought on. I took a risk and carved out the opportunity at work I felt I had earned. As important relationships in my life were strained near their breaking points, I trusted them enough to hold on and they came back stronger. And though my writing career seemed to be back to square one, I dusted myself off and started back up the hill.
This week for my thirty-first birthday I am not celebrating the long list of accomplishments I anticipated last year. There were some victories, to be sure, but a few disappointments as well. And, unlike last year, I'm not even sure of what I should expect from myself as I begin to make new plans. The thing to celebrate, though, is that I am here--fighting for my dreams and trusting what I know is inside me to get me there.
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