It doesn't really do much good to look down the long corridors of your own past and wonder what would've happened if you took a different path -- if instead of becoming a postal worker like everybody wanted you to do, you went on and followed your dream of becoming a used car salesman.
You just have to live with the path you've chosen, I guess.
But isn't it also possible you can begin something new, to delve into a new passion, even though you're well past middle age and time is running out, so to speak?
I mean, isn't it possible if I practice my banjo every day for the next 30 years -- if I live that long and someone who hates banjo playing doesn't kill me first -- I might actually end up being good at it?
Well, of course.
Sure, I'd never be on the cover of Time Magazine (what banjo player ever is?), but self-satisfaction goes a long way. Or at least it should be.
Even though I own two banjos, I'm actually talking about writing.
I haven't really put a lot of time into it like I should, like real authors do. I just sort of dabble in it. A tweet here, a poem there. Maybe an essay or two. But nothing really fancy. But I did write a short story this weekend. Never wrote one before.
And then I sent it off to The New Yorker.
You know what the odds are for a first time submitter who is only a part-time writer getting published in anywhere, much less The New Yorker?
But if you don't at least take the chance, you're chances aren't great at all. Right?
So, I'll let you know how it goes.