As I write and meet other writers, a quandary ripples across time. I’ve found my calling in writing in my forties, after naval career, two decades into marriage, and a ton of ‘life’ happening at its usual pace. It took some foundation shuddering events to turn my perspective away from the humdrum turbo carousel of popular culture’s idea of my ideal path.
I’ve already written about my encounter with the wonderful Lee family, full of teamwork, steampunk, support and two writers; one young the other… nearly as ‘mature’ as me. I marveled at the life she had ahead of her and felt a momentary pang of envy. That thought’s come full circle now. I’ll reach from the present into the past to help shape an imaginative future.
Okay, I can’t exactly do that; but it’s kinda the idea. I’m planning to get the writer’s group I’m in as the old me to visit the local high school and reach out to aspiring writers and give them a glimpse into the supportive, constructive, inspiring realm of writer’s workshops. If I’d been exposed to that kind of experience at that age I might’ve pursued writing more fervently earlier in life. So while I can’t impart our wisdom on my past I can hope to encourage a delightful future in those budding artists unsure of where to begin and not yet bold enough to launch their life’s dream.
So that’s it, no time machine or racing DeLorean at the end of my tale; just an aging writer eager to see someone benefit from the path I’ve been down.