by Shelt Garner
@sheltgarner
My paternal grandmother started to paint later in life and she did a pretty good job. I think about her a lot as I grow closer and closer to finishing a novel that at least won’t embarrass me.
Given that I’m about 25 years too old to do anything but just sit in my room and stare up at the ceiling while twiddling my thumbs, I’m just going to have to console myself that when I finish the novel I will have prove the point I set out to prove when I began this project — my writing doesn’t suck and fuck you.
The novel I’m working on tells an interesting, coherent story that I — hope — leaves the reader wanting more. And, yet, I have to accept, no matter how hard it is, that even if I stick the landing and blow up with my novel money I simply won’t get what I want.
I want to be young and cute hanging out with my fellow 25 year olds in New York City running around the city making mistakes and memories. That is just not going to happen. No amount of success I might attain because of this novel will give me my youth back.
And if I became as big a success as I feel I could be, all anyone will want to talk about is how I became a success “late in life” and they’ll pester me with questions about what it feels like to be a “late bloomer.”
As such, I just have to be proud of creation for the sake of creation. Even if it takes me years to successfully query this novel I will have proven to the haters that I can, in fact, write a novel.
