Ten years on, and ten more years, and ten...

In some ways this has been a portentous week, and in other ways this week has been a reminder that my life is just made of days, with the yesterdays passed and unalterable, and the tomorrows something I can't do much about. That life is a long series of today, and doing what I can with today.

I turned forty this week. On Wednesday, actually. So, yes, turned forty on 12/12/12. If that doesn't leave you feeling like the period on the end of a prophecy, I don't know what will. Maybe if I turned twelve that day. And while I'm not someone who pays a lot of attention to my own age, beyond what it means for my insurance and overall sense of mortality, the ten year anniversaries mean a little.

It was on my thirtieth birthday that I decided to get serious about this writing thing. Since it's so close to the end of the year, I spent the rest of December doing research, and started scribing in earnest with the new year. So it's ten years since I started writing. Ten years. I guess it's worth looking back.

Am I where I wanted to be at this point? No, not at all, but that's partly because I really had no idea what I was talking about back then. The realities of the writing industry had not been impressed on my joyful optimism. And I really hadn't done the background work I needed to do to succeed.

But it's been ten years, and I'm writing full time. I'm not living off of my writing yet, but I have to believe that I'll get there. I need to get there. And all I can do about that is what I do today. Tomorrow isn't here yet.

What's strangest about this particular anniversary is that I don't really have a lot to say about it. I'm happy, but discontent. I'm determined, but occasionally overwhelmed at how little control I have in my own well being. I believe enough to know that I'd be a fool to not doubt.

Anyway. Ten years. They're passed, and all I have is today, and tomorrow's today, and every today that follows.