Category: Writing Life
This week was my birthday. To me, it was a small milestone – crossing the line into the latter half of my thirties. It wasn’t met with much cheer. By this age I had expected to be a successful writer, or at least be living above the poverty line. Life as a starving artist is cool in your twenties, maybe even early thirties, but here I am approaching forty and I still can’t afford new jeans, let alone a house. So in the weeks leading up to my birthday, I took a hard look at my life and tried to figure out what I was doing wrong. I blogged about why I haven’t finished my novel and my penchant for over-revising. But perhaps the real question is: Why do I think I’m so old?