BFam and I have been having intense conversations off and on the past few weekends. The weekends are really the only time we have to spend together as his schedule has picked up from intense to oh my God you cannot be serious! Like any parent, we have to wait until our children fall asleep before we’re allowed to remember what it was like to live a life without them. And since it’s illegal in most, if not all, of the fifty states to give your children sedatives without them having a predetermined medical condition warranting such a thing, we have to be law abiding citizens and go the normal route. Waiting. Sure, we have the fifth of bourbon just in case, but who really wants to deal with hungover children? Hungover adults aren’t fun. Hungover children is just asking to put your life on hold for 24 hours. Who has that kind of time?
Kids asleep, we talk about the meaning of life and our order in the universe. OK, maybe not that heavy but pretty close. Our biggest topic of discussion, other than the recent political frenzy or natural disasters, has been the meaning of life. Not existentially speaking, but careers. Why are we punching in and punching out to nothing? What is this 9-to-5 garbage and why did it sound so much better coming from Dolly Parton than it actually is? BFam is in a void, a constant struggle he’s having with himself to determine what he is meant to be doing. What will make him happy? What will start a fire under him that will not only challenge him but wake him up every morning and, probably, keep him up all night? Besides me? I try throwing around the same hyperbole only to be shot down with “Really? You don’t know what you’re supposed to be doing? Because isn’t there a book you need to be writing or something? You know what I’m going to start calling you? The great starter. Because you don’t finish crap.”
And I go, “SHUT UP!” because I’m all mature like that and, really, that’s all I’ve got. Thanks honey.
So I spend the nano-seconds of free time I’m given to research other writers who have gone before me and succeeded. And I read their bios. And I get inspired because look at them! They were unsure of themselves just like me! They’d had personal and career struggles before hitting it big! And they had kids to juggle while trying to write their books. And they had someone in their corners telling them they were idiots not to keep writing! And to take it a step further and try getting published! Look at that! I’m not the only one! Then I read the stories of those who felt they really, truly had something and are stuck being unrecognized and shelved like so many other aspiring writers. And I’m back to feeling defeated without even trying. Didn’t think I knew what my problem was, did you?
Now then. Here I am. Knowing my calling. Feeling my calling. Fearing my calling. I am fortunate to have even gotten this far in the discovery of myself. And the real question I should be asking isn’t “what?” but “what now?”. [Special shout-out to BFam for the well timed and much needed kick in the pants.]
