A new day

Today is the first day of the rest of my life, which of course, can be said of every day.

This one, however, is a little different.  Today I become a Writer.

I’d love to be able to say that I’m an Author, but that would suggest that I’d actually published something, and I don’t believe that my canon of published works (which consists, in its entirety, of the grief driven and highly sentimental, Together Again: a momentary memoir, that I wrote following my mother’s death) really counts.

Nonetheless, I’ve crossed the Rubicon and, as Julius Caesar said, "alea iacta est” – the die is cast.

A blank canvas lies before me that is both intimidating and terrifying.  I have nothing to suggest that I’ll be any good, save for a sense of self-belief and a very supportive family.  I have amassed a mole-hill of ideas that seem splendid in my head, but which need to be crafted and committed to paper.  The prospect is daunting, but it is a long time since I have felt this excited.

In 1988 I dropped out of university, flush with the confidence that comes from youthful arrogance, knowing that I was doing the right thing and that I was about to embark on a stellar writing career.  I had two great friends visit me at the time, Sally and Kate, imploring me to stick it out. I should perhaps have listened a little more closely to what they had to say, for the ambition was never realised, half-heartedly pursued, and instead, I trod a more conventional path that led me to a moderately successful, yet not entirely fulfilling, career.  Along the way, I have made some great friends and I won the lottery in meeting my love and my soulmate, Alex.  We’ve been blessed with two wonderful children who are our great joy and the foundations for happiness have been solidly built.

Until today though, the final step in realising that happiness has not been taken.  I have not pursued my passion and have burdened myself with excuses for why it hasn’t been possible.  They’ve always been plausible and until now, I’ve always believed them.

There were catalysing events that led me to today.  An old friend, Rodney Strong, who I met in my first job after leaving university, published his first novel.  I took that, and his second, away with me on holiday to read.  Every time I picked it up, I reflected that he’d done it; he’d stepped off the treadmill and started following a new path; it might be forked, have precipitous sides, or appear to be never-ending, but therein lies the adventure.  It was a journey I started to mull.

Another was the imminence of my 49^th birthday, the age at which my father died.  Reflecting on mortality and the absence of creative output gave me pause; we have no idea what tomorrow may bring, and carpe diem never felt more timely.

I was also intensely dissatisfied with both the predictable work life imbalance that I faced and staring at the world through a profound window of boredom.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I am greatly looking forward to bringing Daniel Fielding to life in “No One In Particular”, of seeing whether “Dignity’s” Malcolm Beaumont is able to live out his dream, or what messages we’ll discover in “Video Postcards”.

As I begin my new adventure, there is only one regret that I plan to have, which is that I didn’t start it sooner.