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Some people buy sports cars. Some purchase motorcycles or yachts or hire hookers. Some go traveling, perhaps a trip around the world with that special person that may well have been special for decades now.
Lots of us have mid-life crises. It’s that moment when you transition from thinking that there’s time enough to fit in everything you want to do, and therefore put it off again, to thinking, shit, there may not be that much time left after all.
I’ve been many things in my life, programmer, bouncer, logger, IT consultant. I got bored easy. Once I’d mastered something, I moved on. My mind was restless and yet I always had a goal. To accumulate more assets, to ensure that my children had a better start in life than I did. To be a good little consumer in a capitalistic society.
I did that.
My kids have enjoyed advantages that I would never have dreamed of at their age and yet, in giving them the best start in life, I’ve spent my own youth to enhance theirs.
There is every chance that one day, in a decade or two, I may even be moderately well off and yet what good will it do me when I’m old, fat and bald? My reactions too slow for fast cars, faster bikes. My dick too limp to please any woman. I may have money to spend on my dotage but it will have cost me the most productive years of my life and every year that passes will steal more and more of my abilities until I’m just a tax liability drooling in a wheelchair. I’ll never enjoy the wealth that I’ve generated.
And so, we approach the meat of the matter.
We all have dreams. Sometimes we leave them too late. I’m on record for stating that most peoples’ regrets on their death bed are not what they did that they shouldn’t, but what they didn’t do that they should. The missed opportunities, those things that attracted us but we could never make time for. Those aspirations that we never thought we could achieve.
I’ve been reading books since I was nine or so. There is a wealth of material available in the genres that I love and yet I find, since the death of my two favorite authors, little of it has any real attraction to me. David Gemmell died and I stopped reading fantasy. Iain M. Banks passed away and I stopped reading Sci-Fi.
When all your heroes are dead, maybe it’s time to step up.
So I started writing.
I can’t fill their boots, I wouldn’t even try. More than one person has mentioned to me that I write like Gemmell and, while that is a huge compliment (more than you will ever know), there’s only really one person that ever wrote like Gemmell and he’s not here any longer.
I write like me.
Luck was with me when I joined Steemit.com and I made a little money in the (almost) three months I’ve been here. Enough perhaps to see me through the next three months with the aid of my good lady.
My Steemit assets have been liquidated and are now in fiat, ready to be pulled.
Let’s see whether I’m capable of becoming the thing I’ve wished for most.
For the next three months, I will be writing full time.
A novel from virtually nothing in 13 weeks.
My aim is mainstream publication.
Even if I fail, I succeed. I will have tried to realise my dream.
That’s a better chance than many of us get.
Who needs an XKR? Not me. I'll chase the dream.
I’ll keep you posted.
John King.
