the finer line

I didn’t start writing seriously until I was 75. That’s when my life finally started making sense. I always figured that’s how it would happen. I also knew that until that moment arrived, I’d struggle. For years I told myself that the constant hardship sculpting my days in and nights out was toughening me up and imbuing a perspective that would allow me to see the world as it really is. Another thought I liked leaning on was the old “late bloomer”” thing. Time doesn’t matter anyway, right? And now at 75, sharp and practiced and prepared, I can get to work. Real work. 

Arthur Rimbaud wrote all his poetry between 15 and 20 and then gave it up. Not sure if anyone knew why he stopped. I wonder what he said to those who asked. Did something have to happen for him to write all that poetry at such an age? What shifted in his mind that made him stop? He died of cancer in his thirties, so I guess it was a good thing he got all that work out of the way early on. 

And then there are the ones who never do a damn thing their whole lives. They’re born with a near inert, offhand perspective you can only pin down for a few hours at a time. And this is the fuel that gets them there. They have it all along and let the world pass by like a hangover. It’s this blithe perspective that leaves them lingering along, not caring about a thing and not stressing about not caring. 

Me – I got pulled into every crevasse life could open up below me and had to spend my time digging my way out. A whole life of starting over, bringing things back to even, damage control. It’s no way to live but it’s a life and I lived it. And I’m finally done with all that living so it’s time to write. Maybe I’ll start with an autobiography and then move into fiction. Then I’ll try my hand at poetry like that Rimbaud kid. I’ve got all the time in the world.