A GenX Mid-life Crisis Rant

“You’re so brave,” she says. She waves her cell phone, pointing at my most recent Instagram post. …

I don’t remember being brave. — I don’t remember much of anything — memories sift through my fingertips and stick to the backs of my knees. Unable to hold on to my past — the feelings too big to be contained. …

Distractions. Excuses. I pick up my pen — put it down again — tap the side of the desk. They say writing is routine, ritual, perseverance. I snatch my coffee, nod at my children, mumble about how I have writing to do, and plunk down at my desk each morning…

I am not a millennial. I do not sleep with my cell phone, and I cannot send a text message one-handed from the pocket of my jeans.

I am a Generation Xer. And by that definition, I am an adaptable skeptic — a part of the generation that helped shape…

They tell us words matter. We nod, thinking of great fiction, our most beloved stories. They provide lists of tools and rules: metaphors, similes, rhythm, pacing, plot, structure, setting, character. We are warned that our chances of success are slim, or nil. …

I slump behind my keyboard, staring at a blank page, begging for the words to appear. I whisper a prayer to the Muses. Inspiration, creativity, mastery, greatness. These are the intangibles — the magic — the whiff of something unidentifiable, just beyond naming.

How do I conjure that?

It is…

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.” - Frank Herbert, Dune

I hunt for words. I wrack my brain. I spend hours thinking, creating, polishing…