by Shelt Garner
@sheltgarner
The clock is ticking. It is now looking like it won’t be until the fall of my 52nd year before I am in a position to query my first novel. This sucks a great deal. I hate is so much because that pushes my chances of being a published author down the road yet another year.
This is starting to get way to close to 60 for my liking. And, yet, lulz, what am I going to do. I can’t go back and I have to accept that even if I magically become successful “late in life” that the dynamic will not be anywhere what I could otherwise possible imagine.
There is an alternative universe where at some point in my teens I decided to go the creative route rather than be a journalist — and a bad one at that. So, there is a chance that some version of me is a success — or maybe not — in Hollywood.
I have to, however, accept my lot. I have to accept that all that happened before is just water under the bridge. There is no going back. I do feel a certain amount of pressure to hurry up and squeeze out a novel as quickly as possible. I definitely know the general outline of this novel I’m working on pretty well, but the specifics continue to be a real pain in the ass.
