Really, it’s just another birthday. No more or less momentous than 39 or 41 or any other randomly chosen number within the human life span. Why then should it feel so weighty?
Why does this particular day feel like the beginning of the end?
I turned 40 on August 23rd of this year. Birthdays aren’t nearly as much fun as they used to be. For one, I lack the funds for a proper celebration. Worse, so do my friends. No one’s gonna throw me a surprise party, unless the surprise is that there is no party. Like most people trying to break into Hollywood, I need richer friends.
Wait, no. That wasn’t my point.
My point was — even though there is no reason on earth to attach any unusual significance to the big four-oh, I do. I did. It’s just one of those things we do. Forty. Wow. What a bitch.
For years every August I’ve suffered a slight bout of birthday blues. It’s not about looking old, I assure you. I’ve long accepted the fact that I’m not going to be the handsome one in the ensemble cast. I’m no leading man. I’m more the comic relief — the wacky neighbor, perhaps. Or the fat, crass, unkempt college buddy from glory days long by who comes to visit at just the wrong time — the night your boss is coming over for diner and you’re up for a partnership — much to the chagrin of your snooty fiancee who doesn’t really love you. I’m sort of like Jack Black, but without the charm or the bank.
Where was I?
Oh, birthday blues. Yeah. I’m losing my hair, and gaining more waistline…and I don’t care. What I do care about is that I don’t know what the hell happened to the last twenty years of my life.
Really. I don’t. Because I’m pretty much in the same spot I was standing in twenty years ago. I live with my Mom. I teach at a preschool. I want to be a writer, but I don’t seem to be making any headway. You wouldn’t know I’m forty instead of twenty, except for the aforementioned lack of hair and the excess waist.Twenty years is a long fucking time to tread water, my friends.
So I’m kinda pissed. And scared. And here’s what scares the me the most. Here’s what really hurts about being forty. If the next twenty years blows by like the last twenty years, I’ll be sixty and nowhere. And folks — that’s getting close to the end for me. Life is a limited time offer, and in my family it’s even more limited than most.[1] I just don’t have time to dick around any more. I never did, but there’s no going back.
If I keep going the way I’m going, it’s gonna be over before I started. I’ll be one of those people who sees the end coming and thinks, oh shit — I never got my shot.
So I was in more of a funk than usual this birthday. I found myself wanting to go back in time and shake 20-year-old Dave around and wake him up. The sad truth is I’d probably make the same mistakes all over again. It’s either human nature, or, if science fiction has taught us anything, the nature of time travel.
And then it hit me.
Today is just the future’s past. So why not tell myself now to get my shit together? As if I was traveling back from my 60s. This is my chance. Now. I don’t really know how much future I have left. The only thing I really have is the present. I have to make the present count. Every damn moment.
I wish i could say this revelation turned my life around. Pretty much, I’m still solidly on a course for obscurity and death-by-Double-Doubles. But it did get me thinking in a more positive, empowered way. I’ve been strategizing. I feel better about being forty than I have at any time leading up to it. So that’s something.
So, for my fortieth birthday, my gift to myself was to draw up something I call the Day Job Freedom Act. Not a plan, but an act you see. It’s the beginning of a way to extricate myself from my day job and to start doing the things I really love with my life. That includes but is not limited to screenwriting.
Because forty may not have made me a wise man, but it did teach me one thing. It’s the present that counts. The present is my life, I have to make it the place I really want to be.
I’m forty, but I’m not finished. And this is not the beginning of the end. It’s just the plain old beginning.
- My grandfather died of a heart failure at 44. My uncle died of a pulmonary embolism at 55. My grandmother died of kidney failure at 65. She was a longevity record setter in my family. [↩]
Happy Birthday, Dave! From one who knows, the next 20 years will go by very slowly. Plenty of time to make your mark.
I turned 31 last month and have been having some of the same ideas as you (about not knowing where the years have gone and hoping I don't feel the same in ten years).
I like your idea of pretending future self gave me a visit and kicked me into gear. Here's hoping we both can keep a positive outlook and in the near future won't feel so obscure and bound for a life of failure.
Happy Spawning Day!
Here's one thing you can do to ensure you're a success as a writer, even if you never make a sale: write every single day, without exception.
You may already do that, in which case – excellent! If not, I've found it to be enriching and rewarding in its own right, and the only real way to give myself a shot at a career.
I'm 33, but I didn't write for five years, so I feel like I'm playing catch-up. If you love writing, do it! : )
Happy B-day! Mine is tomorrow (9/1) Just checking out writing sites when I stumbled across yours. Haven't written a word since updating scripts for Scriptapolooza. Hope this finds you well.
Thanks for the well-wishes and a Happy Birthday back atcha everyone.
Luzid, a note bearing the phrase nulla dies sine linea is taped to my desk.
Yo Mr. A. I'm 42 and still think about what could have been, where did it go, and that in some parallel universe I'm sure I'm writing blockbusters and living in Marin County. If only I could find a worm-hole…
Just remember, it's never too late to be who you might have been. ;-}
-Kelly
Dave — If my advice (proceed with caution) counts for anything the one thing I would say is use what your feeling. Pour it into a character. I bet that character and eventually that story will be the deepest, best work in your repertoire.
William, I call that my "Wonder Boys" script. One day, one day…
Lack of sales does not mean lack of talent, just lack of luck. Someone was paid for writing LETHAL WEAPON IV, right? So you're 40 and haven't made a big sale. The only thing that's passed you by is a big paycheck, not life itself. Do you think people in the audience notice the screenwriter's name? It's on screen for three seconds and immediately forgotten.
Marc
I'm 10 years behind you, but I feel like I'm getting older as well. I actually just wrote about the 30 rules to being 30+. Take a look if you like; I'm sure it will make you smile a bit.
http://thecorner33.blogspot.com/2009/04/30-rules-…