How old are you?
Lately, I’ve gotten this question a lot. I don’t know why. And it doesn’t bother me to answer, but what is age?
When I look around at my life and what I have accomplished, I don’t feel old or mature. I feel young, because I haven’t reached my ultimate goals. To me, I’m still an immature babe trying to make a mark and learn the ropes of publishing. I’m still self-conscious, searching for who I really am as an author. I’m reaching for a place in this field, but am still unsure of where I want to be as a writer. Only one thing I am sure of and have reached maturity on: as long as I live I will write and pursue my dream.
No. I’m no teenager or some young adult fresh out of college.
And I’m not old enough to even begin to think about retiring. But! I am at the beginning of a journey. A journey, an adventure where I am as excited as a kid at Christmas. As anxious as if the first day of high school. And as scared as if the boogeyman were alive, well, and staring down at me, hovered over my bed at night (and he very well could be). So while I’m not the youngest on the outside, on the inside, I’m still a kid. With childish aspirations, wild endless imagination, and unyielding dreams, I am as old as I dare to be.
“Youth has no age.”