Back on New Year’s Eve, I turned forty years old. I figure, if I’m lucky, I’ve hit the mid-point of my life. Getting older has never bothered me before. Like most kids, I couldn’t wait to grow up. Then I hit my twenties and realized everyone still referred to me as a kid. Made. Me. Nuts.
Hitting thirty was like I’d finally made it. I was a grown up. Then by thirty-one I was a divorced single mother embarking on a whole new life. Hard to believe that was a decade ago. I was scared but excited and ready to do whatever necessary to give my daughter a good life.
With forty came an entirely different mindset. Instead of looking ahead with excitement and endless drive, I’m looking back and thinking, “I thought I’d be farther along than this.” A thought that has singlehandedly erected a speed bump in my brain.
Because life is funny like that, I’m stuck in the exact same spot in my MS. The middle.
I started revisions in December, almost immediately after finishing the rough draft. I know it’s best to wait a while before starting edits, but I’m sitting on a full request from a dream agent and while I cannot send her something that isn’t as good as I can make it, I don’t want to make her wait until 2014 to set eyes on the darn thing.
Leave it to me to hit the middle of a manuscript and a mid-life crisis at the same time. Now if I can figure out which event is the cause and which is the effect, I might get myself moving again.