Tag: writing

Only As Old

These are not my words.

This is a cribbed Facebook post. Posted by Eden Lynn, a San Diego graphic designer. Who knows where she found it.

It’s a good one, I think, and a great reminder for those who might believe they can’t get there from here:

“At age 23, Tina Fey was working at a YMCA.

At age 23, Oprah was fired from her first reporting job.

At age 24, Stephen King was working as a janitor and living in a trailer.

At age 27, Vincent Van Gogh failed as a missionary and decided to go to art school.

At age 28, J.K. Rowling was a single parent living on welfare who was clinically depressed and at times has contemplated suicide.

At age 28, Wayne Coyne (from The Flaming Lips) was a fry cook.

At age 30, Harrison Ford was a carpenter.

At age 30, Martha Stewart was a stockbroker.

At age 37, Ang Lee was a stay-at-home-dad working odd jobs.

Julia Child released her first cookbook at age 39, and got her own cooking show at age 51.

Vera Wang failed to make the Olympic figure skating team, didn’t get the Editor-in-Chief position at Vogue, and designed her first dress at age 40.

Stan Lee didn’t release his first big comic book until he was 40.

Alan Rickman gave up his graphic design career to pursue acting at age 42.

Samuel L. Jackson didn’t get his first major movie role until he was 40.

Morgan Freeman landed his first MAJOR movie role at age 52.

Kathryn Bigelow only reached international success when she made The Hurt Locker at age 57.

Louise Bourgeois didn’t become a famous artist until she was 78.

Grandma Moses didn’t begin her painting career until age 76.

Whatever your dream is, it is not too late to achieve it. You aren’t a failure because you haven’t found fame and fortune by the age of 21.

Hell, it’s okay if you don’t even know what your dream is yet. Even if you’re flipping burgers, waiting tables or answering phones today, you never know where you’ll end up tomorrow.

Never tell yourself you’re too old to make it.

Never tell yourself you missed your chance.

Never tell yourself that you aren’t good enough.

You can do it. Whatever it is that sets your soul on fire.”

On My Way

Words and I have had the strangest and most intense relationship for as long as I can remember. An ambivalent relatuonship I like to say as I both love words and I hate them. (More about that in posts to come.) Words have been close companions, sparring partners, lanterns in the dark, and sources of comfort when all human comfort eluded me. To say nothing of the vast amounts of knowledge and scads of insight I picked up along the way. Damned handy tools to have in my arsenal it turns out. I have been told all my life by people I admire and respect that I should write a book. So this is me starting out to do just that. I intend to write here every day for one year and see where I am a year from today. I anticipate gaps (giving myself a built-in “out clause”). I anticipate frustration. I anticipate hair-pulling, gnashing, wailing and carefully curated whining. I am extremely good at suffering. Ultimately, I anticipate a sort of soul satisfaction simply by putting out into the world what has milled about in my head and heart for eons. Well, okay, decades. Tomorrow is March 15, the ides of March. Traditionally it marks a turning point. It certainly did for Julius Caesar. Similarly, I hope to kill off the doubt, insecurities, and ennui that have held me back from becoming a “real writer” in this world, on this plane, in this time. Such a broad term “writing.” My life has been infused with all the juicy stuff required for riveting writing: tragedy, love, pathos, violence, comedy, struggle, humiliation, triumph, achievements, births, deaths, family dysfunction and tenderness. Love – as I understand it – has always led the way. You, dear reader, are my accountability tribe. If you are onboard with me on my journey, give me a like or a ribbing, or anything but a virtual poisoned dart. I cannot abide trolls. So let’s see how I do over the next 364 days. One to five minutes at a time.