Holy moly, writers, do you grok that it’s already April? March flashed by like the Flash (copyright DC Comics) in a super hurry, which sums up how 2018 is speeding by for me.
I know some of this phenomena of time speeding past is because I keep busy, writing and editing every day. A full schedule keeps me from contemplating too much of the present. Compounding this is how I live in my novels. I’m much more aware of my characters’ timelines and how they’re living their lives than my timeline and how I’m living my own.
That doesn’t bother me. I come up for a daily gulp of reality. Reality is not as much fun as fiction. Then, who said life is about being fun, right? Life is about surviving and procreating, right?
No, life is what you make it. I’m making mine into a writer’s life. I’ll probably pause someday, many books written, and wonder, what happened to the time? I’ll know, but I’ll still present the rhetorical query to myself, because that’s my mental and emotional construction.
Then again, this could be one of many universes where I exist, and when I die, all my selves will come together (cue the Beatles tune, or the Aerosmith cover, if that’s more to your taste) and compare notes. Maybe my other selves will hear about my writing life, and tell me how much they envy me, because I chose to live my life as I wanted. Others will probably chastise me for being selfish. Oh, well, you can’t please all your selves all the time. Best to quickly accept that and move on.
Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.