Another Birthday Goes By…

Birthdays are a little bittersweet now. Every one that passes, I am acutely aware that I haven’t published any long form fiction.

I have wanted to be a novelist for a very long time. Since grade seven. Back then, I wrote a 88,000 word masterpiece (read: definitely not a masterpiece) and, at grade 11, I even submitted it to a publisher (and was rejected. Woot!).

Every year that comes by, I wonder why I’m not further than I am. This isn’t to say my life hasn’t been changing and progressing. I have done a lot of things I am proud of: publishing nonfiction, establishing my family, finding a book-related job that has a pension and benefits (unheard of, I know), and dealing with my depression and anxiety.

When I was a kid, I was always mad. Specifically, I was really mad when I heard publishing success stories about authors younger than me. Now that I work as a book buyer, I am finding young authors all the time. And it was frustrating because I was still floundering.

I had realized that meant that I valued the novelty of being a young person writing over all else. So I thought I was over that issue, acknowledging it and letting it pass. But every birthday, as my age goes for a level-up, I feel a twang of guilt and failure in my heart that I’m not further than I am.

Such is the situation living with depression and anxiety. Even if you acknowledge something, the feelings still linger and you have to remember again and again how you have dealt with that issue and moved forward.

Sigh.

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