Where did my 20s Go?

                 I am going to spend the majority of this post linking what’s going on in my life with the sudden disappearance of my 20s. Today is the day I’ve decided that this must go down on paper so that it doesn’t consume me from the inside. So I ask, am I alone in wondering where the great decade, the roaring 20s, have gone?

                Why today? Why is it just now destroying me from inside out? Well, today I was dealt a metaphorical gut punch and it felt like it was thrown by a 20 year old version of  Mike Tyson. So, here’s the deal, my name is Nate. I’m a 32 year old father and husband who is for the most part happy. I love my wife and son more than anything! My wife and I live in a decent sized home on a nice piece of land half way between her work and mine. It’s also the same distance (about 10 miles) to her parents and mine. We have friends that we love. We have family. We have fun. We have decent paying jobs and respect from our peers. From that standpoint, life isn’t so bad.

                So why am I submitting this post where I’m going to whine and pine about gray hair, going to bed early, ever increasing love-handles, and lost freedom? Because, today, I just want to take the opportunity to whine. And maybe, some of you can relate. Maybe some of you can offer some advice. Maybe some of you are still in the prime years and can learn to savor them. And maybe, I just need some shoulders to cry on. Again, not because of my beautiful wife, my wonderful son, my supportive family, my awesome friends, or our decent paying jobs. But, just because. That may not make sense to you, but that’s the only way I can describe it.

                Here’s the deal, I want to be a writer. In high school and early college, I wrote music. It was a genre that I had no business in and fell quickly out of love with, but I was talented and dedicated and I loved writing. From there, I wrote poetry; lots of poetry. Some of it should someday be put to music, but I’m no musician. Looking back through the poems, I see that there were some that were pretty good and that I still enjoy, and some that weren’t very good at all, but I loved it…All of it. I loved imagining the stories. I loved the rhythm and the rhyme. So, I eventually turned my love of song lyrics and poetry into novel form. I’ve tried to write many novels. And what I’ve found is that imagining the stories is even richer and deeper in novels than it is in short form poetry and song lyrics. To quote a line from the movie Mary Poppins, “It’s Wonderful!”

                I spent the majority my free time in my 20s developing as a writer. I struggle with details, that’s my wife’s area of expertise. I’ve always seen the bigger picture in everything. So, I’ve had to grow. I’ve had to force myself to see the details more clearly. I’ve had to find my voice, and I think I’m getting there. I’ve had to decipher the topics that I know about from those that I only think that I know about. I’ve had to proofread over and over, which was a task I hated worse than bedtime when I was in school, but now, I feel I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Needless to say, I’ve spent a lot of time developing my process.

                In 2013, still in my prime, at the ripe old age of 28, I self- published my first novel, The Killer and Boyd Burgess. It cost me quite a bit of money, but I was having zero luck with traditional publishers. The company I used to self-publish was wonderful in a number of ways and I am forever grateful for their help in making my dream of becoming a published author a reality. What I learned was that, I'm not a very good sales person and, without the guidance of a company or an agent, I had no idea how to market or sell that book. That was frustrating because I received positive reviews from those who found and read it. I am very proud of The Killer and Boyd Burgess. Also, I own the copyright (if any publishing companies or film studios are interested😉). So, as a bright-eyed 28-year old, there was a lot of hope and optimism.

                Since, I have worked on many projects trying to find the one(s). What I am learning is that finding the one in writing is a lot like finding the one in love. It doesn't come quickly, but when you know, you know. I am ashamed to say that I started what could eventually be a very good book of smut, but that genre just isn’t me. I have a wonderful poem called, In the Land of Broken Toys that I have no idea how to publish. I also have a children’s book that I am very proud of that I am developing with a talented, aspiring illustrator. And as great as both of those projects will be, I still have the burn to write fiction novels.

                At the beginning of 2016, a co-worker suggested that I take one of my MANY passions and convert it into something fresh. Lightbulb: Has there ever been a great fiction novel centered in the whacky and wild world of professional wrestling? Answer: I don’t think so…So of course, that has been my new love interest. I started putting my thoughts down and by summer, the first draft was complete. It was rough, but, it was a start. Why did I love it? The characters are really good and one specifically that is so dynamic. His name is Bud Starr and he is incredible. I re-read about him and I am swept away, as though I'm reading someone else's work.

                By December, this new novel was at least a good to very good second draft awaiting the expertise of an experienced editor. Now, let me add something. My wife, an 8^th grade language arts teacher, has the skills to be a hell of an editor! She is meticulous and creative and has a genius imagination. Unfortunately, aside from working a demanding job, she is also taking classes towards her master’s degree, and is a fabulous mother to our infant son. Point being, time isn’t on her side…Or mine for that matter.

                But all hope isn’t lost in this story. Actually quite the opposite. A bit of serendipity came my way when my stepbrother gave me a card of a book publisher who was in our small town looking for the world’s most wonderful donut shop. He gave them directions to the famous, Red’s Donuts, and let her know that his step brother happened to be a talented author. What a guy! Seriously, what an awesome Bro! Without letting her know about the connection, I submitted a portion of my transcript to this publisher on December 6^th, 2016. Within the week, the publisher responded and asked for more. 10 agonizing weeks later, she requested for the entire manuscript! For me, now a 32-year old with aches, pains, a child, and several blossoming gray hairs, life was looking up.

                That was until I got the email. It’s the email that nobody wants but everybody gets. It’s the dreaded rejection letter. It was, like most rejections, sweet, and assuring that this was less about me and more about the fit in the company. It was thoughtful. It had a bit of advice. The kind lady even encouraged me to continue submitting my work to her company. It was intended to soften the blow, but, the now 32 year old version of me felt the pain far worse than I had when my first novel had experienced this type of rejection. This version felt it like a freight train. The thoughts of hopelessness, and worthlessness came to the forefront. And the thought of being perpetually trapped in a job that I planned to have moved on from years ago set in…Like way in. Again, not that my job is bad. It’s not. But it’s not writing novels for a living. I’m sure someone reading can relate.

                Everyone I know has been so nice. There have been words of encouragement. My boss could see the devastation on my face and told me to take the rest of the day off (Of course I didn't but I appreciated the gesture). Do you see how good of a life I get to live. I got home and my wife and son cheered me up immediately. I can't tell you exactly what they did other than just be themselves, which was so perfect. In my 20s, I had my wife, though I didn’t appreciate the wonderful woman that she is like I do now, but I didn’t have my son. He is my joy. Seeing him gave me amnesia to my horrid news. They are me reason for manning up and going on. If everyone who was ever rejected had them, the art of rejection wouldn’t even have to be a thing. People could just say what they mean and not worry about feelings. I’m sorry for those of you that don’t have them, or someone like them. I can tell you that I was you in my wonderful, now long gone 20s. It was nice, but now I’m 32, still hoping to publish a great novel, with a better support system than ever, and I’m already done whining about my bad news. Wherever my 20s went, maybe its good that they're gone.

                Give me your feedback if you’d like, and thank you for reading!