In a few weeks, I’ll turn 48 years old. I’m rapidly closing in on the half-century mark. Let the records show that this is happening against my will and without my approval, but so it goes. Yes, I realize that age is just a number and that 50 is the new 40 and all that other bullshit that we tell ourselves to not feel shitty about the onslaught of time, but let’s be real; it sucks.
As a writer, I can’t help but view life in the form of a story, a very long, and often boring one, but a story nonetheless. The typical story has three acts, and since the life expectancy of the average male in this country is around 76 years old that puts each act at about 25 years, so in that perspective, I’m closing out Act II very soon. It’s a very sobering realization.
I’ve spent the last few months thinking about this and what it means. When I began Act II, if you will, I could only faintly hear the tick-tock of that eternal clock. Quite frankly, I just ignored the damn thing. I had more time than anything, so what did I care. The arc of the story in Act II is all about the long runway of possibilities, which seem infinite. Looking back, I realize I was more than a little careless. I wasted time on things that didn’t matter, engaged people who ultimately didn’t matter, and allowed myself to lose focus.
The problem is entropy. In general, everything migrates toward disorder, especially if you’re not paying attention. Life gets away from you because of the distraction created by the creeping disorder that surrounds you. The next thing you know a decade has zipped by and you haven’t accomplished what you set out to do, or things simply haven’t turned out the way you expected them to (and whether you like it or not, it’s your fault; blaming others is a fool’s errand). The image of trying to herd cats comes to mind. Some of my cats have long since wandered down the street. It’s more than a little disappointing.
But there’s nothing like an artificial milestone to raise the cackles of discontent. A slight shuffling suddenly becomes a full-on sprint. Half-shut eyes spring open in surprise. It gives a certain clarity that may have been lingering in the background waiting to be called into action. I’ve always done my best work on a tight deadline. I hate this about myself, but it’s true. Give me more time than I need and entropy rears its ugly head. Tell me I have only an hour to do a five-hour task and I can part the seas to find the path to redemption. Well, Act III is the ultimate deadline, and there’s no better time than now to re-focus, re-energize, and reassert myself in my own story.
I’m going to start by removing all distractions, those things that allow entropy to take hold. I’m going to double-down on my life goals that I haven’t achieved yet (one of those goals is getting a book published). While I can’t reclaim the time I’ve wasted, I will be more careful with the time I have. This story isn’t done yet.