OK. I lied. I'm writing about my birthday today.
My narcissism knows no bounds.
I'm 39 today. A pup to some, a grandpa to others. It's a big year for me. They say you discover yourself in your 20s, and define yourself in your 30s. I have one more year to define myself.
There are a lot of things I thought I would have accomplished by now; being a published fiction author not the least of them. Fame, fortune, glory. They seem to have eluded me this decade. But I have one more year. One more year to do the things I set out to do.
The question, as it has been for nine years, however, is when?
My time is running out. It's time for me to make time for me.