NOTE: This post is actually not about
EBP's upcoming anthology,
Winter Regrets, which is due out on 2/28, details forthcoming.
I don't follow everyone who follows me, nor do I automatically track commenters back to their own
blogs to comment on
their posts.
"Follow me, I'll follow you" is a song title (bastardized, I'll admit), not a
practice. If that makes me a bad person, so be it. The simple truth is, there are too many blogs, too many people, and
not enough hours in the day for all of it.
I do, however, explore the blog's follower list from time-to-time. I check out profiles and blogs. Sometimes I'll follow
those blogs, sometimes I pop in on a regular basis without following, sometimes I comment, sometimes I don't.
On Monday, having the day off, I had some extra time and poked around the list, where I found what was then a roughly week-old post from B.A. Wilson, the most recent follower of this blog (except maybe for that anonymous guy, you know who you are). This
particular post really resonated with me. It mirrored in many ways my own journey. B.A. writes,
This is where
writing begins, which leaves me wondering
about the
twenty-seven year gap that grew between my initial desire to write and tell
stories and the time at which I let myself write. Yes, I said let myself
write, because I wanted to write a novel for many, many years before I
actually sat down and typed my first words.
Later, B.A. adds,
"I've floated through degrees and
career paths. Every single step of the way, I always asked myself: What's next?
What do you really want to do with your life? Every single time, I answered,
"I want to write." Then I quickly shoved that idea down as being
ridiculous and irrational, and I dug around for something that might work out
as second best."
And again, I found myself nodding along. While I haven't
exactly floated through many career paths, several times I found myself unhappy with where I was and facing a
decision—stay with this job, or look for a new one? And asking myself if I was
happy. Writing was the
thing that nibbled away at my brain. Writing was one of those things I always
enjoyed, whether it was press releases, curriculum guides, brochure copy. Like B.A., however, I never really gave in to those urges.
But something else she said struck me: "I wish I could
rewind now and start sooner. I can only imagine what I would have learned, in
the last ten years alone, that would have helped me be a much stronger writer
today."
Regret is a powerful, and destructive emotion (is it really
an emotion, by the way? I'm not sure). If we give in to regret, it can be as
paralyzing as the fears that often keep us from acting in the first place.
There is no room for regret. On occasion, I think this way, too. "What if
I had started writing in college? What if I had started sooner? What if I had
spent those hours on the train writing instead of reading or sleeping? What
if I hadn't played so much Grand Theft Auto or World of Warcraft, or spent less time at the bar,
or, or, or…?"
But it's too late for any of that. I'm here, now, with
stories in my head and some degree of writing ability. This is what I have. And
I also believe that the years spent not writing is
just as valuable as anything. During the
*cough*thirty-odd*cough* years between that first explosion of "I want to
write!" and when I sat down and started seriously writing, I've had
experiences. These experiences have shaped who I am and how I think.
There is no room for regret--I've got another book to write.
