On top of turning 30 this week, I finished the first draft of another manuscript. I’ll probably do another pass over the next week or so, then put it to the side and outline another book, before jumping back into a manuscript I’d started a few months ago. I feel like I have too many plates spinning, and I’m on a time crunch. I’m writing them for my kids, but my daughter will be the right age in just eight years or so. That sounds like enough time, but it doesn’t feel like it. I have in my head six different books that I’d like to be finished by then before I can focus on the older-skewing ideas, but I don’t know if I’ll be fast enough to meet the deadline.
I’m writing this from a hospital room. At the end of last week my daughter, Taylor, entered this world. More so than any book, she’s the thing I’m most proud of having a hand in creating. Will this effect the available hours I have for writing? Probably. I don’t care. She’s worth it.
Every year on my birthday, I get well wishes, cards, and gifts. Even with all the celebration though, it is impossible not to think of my own mortality. While celebrating the day of my birth, I’m one year closer to death. And now I find myself closer to thirty than to twenty, a thought that scares me. Just ten years ago I was a clueless teenager, unable to imagine I’d ever get this far. My current age seemed forever away, as did marriage and children. But here I am, an old man (or so my sister-in-law tells me), who could become a father any day now. I’m not thinking of my own birthday, but the day of birth of my child. How can I be a father when I’m a child myself? How can the calendar tell me I’m an adult when I have never felt like one? How did I make it this far? Can I handle what’s just around the corner?