About Hanging Up Spurs
Post 543:
We were in the extra room of this rental house me and a buddy had. The room had cables running all along the carpet and shiny knobs of metal glinted under the light bulbs. I was 23. Maybe 24. This was the place me and my band practiced; the place where I would sit and write songs after they left or before they came.
“If we don’t get to the next level by the time I’m 25, that’s it.” This was my declaration to the band.
I received looks of incredulity. The ultimatum was ridiculous. Arbitrary, at best.
But that’s how I felt. Music is a young man’s game. That’s how I saw it at the time. Whether I was correct is a whole other matter. Now I think it depends on a lot more than just a number.
Well, did I quit? Nope. We went on for a few more years, but if I really focus I think I was disheartened after nothing happened. Limping along on fumes might be a good way to describe it.
Eventually, life pulled me out. It’ll do that. I still make a living in music, but not creatively. Not in the big, all-consuming pursuit sort of way.
I decided to transfer my passion to something with less of a clock. Here I am. I’ve finished six manuscripts, five of which are edited and polished. Three are self-published. I’m in the midst of deciding whether to have a go pushing my newest. Perhaps I should just self-publish again. I never attempted to get an agent or publishing deal. I wanted it to be the right thing. I’ve waited so long. It has to be right.
Or maybe it’s time, once again, to quit.
I don’t think so. Either way, life will pull me out, if that’s to be my fate. I can’t imagine a day where I wasn’t working on a story, but things change.
Everybody has these thoughts, I’m sure. Maybe I’m a little more naked and open with mine, but I hardly think there’s anything rare in my brand of feelings.
Come on, life. Let me go, or pull me out.
Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep working hard. I get that part. Just don’t forget to call. The clock slows for no one down here.
Cheers. Steady. See you after.
