January 21st is my birthday.
This year I turned 44-years-old. This number had me freaking out during the weeks leading up to January 21st. It seems like a number that should have a period or exclamation point after it. It is an even number. Grounded. Solid. I would not use any of these words to define myself. I’m more like this bird hanging out the opposite direction. (image created by Cynthia Decker )
My other perspective on 44 is not good either. Bus 44 used to take kids to Fort Salonga elementary school when I went. It was the other bus in my neighborhood. I rode #33, with Mrs. Higgins. She had red teased hair and semi cat eyed sunglasses with a green tint. I remember her chewing gum, but maybe I’m confusing her with Cher’s character LaVerne.
I guess the good news is that my imagination is still working. The other things are silly. I know they are, but I must confess I thought I may have accomplished more. I am relentlessly pushy when it comes to attaining goals. And publishing moves ever so slowly. I am working hard at finding the right agent for my work.
I am also craving mental stimulation and I’m yearning for a creative conversation where my buttons get pushed. I want someone to challenge me, and idea or story I have so I can either get mad and write what I see in my mind or try their suggestion and succeed or fail. I feel like I am idling. I don’t like sitting still. So I am went back to tweaking Life-Like (a title I think I may change to What Death has Touched or go back to Death Becomes Her) and I my mind is zipping chapter ideas around for book #2.
In order to get over my birthday silliness, I asked friends to share memories of me with them on Facebook – to remind me where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. I need this perspective. I hope it will help me get off my own back and free myself to write more creativly. My birthday was very nice. I spent it quietly. Next year I’ll rage!