Well it's my birthday too, yeah
Really. It’s just another day. Another Monday. Another sultry day in August. But it’s my day, my sultry Monday in August. The day that I came into this life. The day I started breathing at 7:36 am in a hospital 34 years ago.
My last birthday was shit. It was a crap day that opened up the crack that ultimately led to a devastating heartbreak. As a result, I’ve tried to keep the birthday thing on the down low (for the most part) this year. That’s something for a Leo – at least this Leo – who likes to have a party to celebrate. But this year, the day is going to be quiet and solitary. A day to reflect and set the next benchmarks.
Birthdays, like New Year’s, are often one of those days when there is an opportunity for a new beginning. A chance to start off a new year with a new determination. And lucky me, I have a summer birthday, so I have a new year every six months. Except this year, I used this birthday as a deadline, not the day to start something new. I promised myself I would write a novel. No, not just write a novel. Have readable copy by the time my body officially aged to 34 years. I started in December – got a little sidetracked in January – but got back to it and nine months later, I’ve got 488 pages of a vampire novel.
I have been writing on and off since I was in seventh grade, when I used to contrive stories to entertain my friends in junior high. I actually started a novel in tenth grade and would write it as a reward after doing homework. I ‘finished’ it my senior year, but never did anything with it other than go back for nearly twenty years of re-invention and re-working, and never really settling on a completed product. Never mind something that I let anyone look at once I left Quabbin.
But something grabbed hold of me this year, my 33rd year. To not just start, but finish. To make something and not just talk about it. To do something instead of just talking shit about what I thought another writer couldn’t do.
So this year, while I value more than anything the company of friends, I think this birthday is a solo effort. Because the year leading up to this deadline was the year I finally decided to do something for myself. To accomplish something for me. To make myself proud of myself.
So today, I am going to sip my coffee. I will workout (because that is another important something to do for myself). I will read the book I’ve been pecking at. I may escape to a movie to dodge the increasing humidity. But, it will be a quiet day. A happy day. A day of moments. Because it is my day.
My last birthday was shit. It was a crap day that opened up the crack that ultimately led to a devastating heartbreak. As a result, I’ve tried to keep the birthday thing on the down low (for the most part) this year. That’s something for a Leo – at least this Leo – who likes to have a party to celebrate. But this year, the day is going to be quiet and solitary. A day to reflect and set the next benchmarks.
Birthdays, like New Year’s, are often one of those days when there is an opportunity for a new beginning. A chance to start off a new year with a new determination. And lucky me, I have a summer birthday, so I have a new year every six months. Except this year, I used this birthday as a deadline, not the day to start something new. I promised myself I would write a novel. No, not just write a novel. Have readable copy by the time my body officially aged to 34 years. I started in December – got a little sidetracked in January – but got back to it and nine months later, I’ve got 488 pages of a vampire novel.
I have been writing on and off since I was in seventh grade, when I used to contrive stories to entertain my friends in junior high. I actually started a novel in tenth grade and would write it as a reward after doing homework. I ‘finished’ it my senior year, but never did anything with it other than go back for nearly twenty years of re-invention and re-working, and never really settling on a completed product. Never mind something that I let anyone look at once I left Quabbin.
But something grabbed hold of me this year, my 33rd year. To not just start, but finish. To make something and not just talk about it. To do something instead of just talking shit about what I thought another writer couldn’t do.
So this year, while I value more than anything the company of friends, I think this birthday is a solo effort. Because the year leading up to this deadline was the year I finally decided to do something for myself. To accomplish something for me. To make myself proud of myself.
So today, I am going to sip my coffee. I will workout (because that is another important something to do for myself). I will read the book I’ve been pecking at. I may escape to a movie to dodge the increasing humidity. But, it will be a quiet day. A happy day. A day of moments. Because it is my day.
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