March 4, 2018September 26, 2018 jathan

Midlife is a Chance to Correct the Mistakes of Your Youth

Career Transition, Midlife Crisis, Personal Development, Writing

A three-minute conversation with my freshman English professor haunts me to this day.

I’ll never forget the incredulous look on Dr. Jeff Wiemelt’s face when I said “No, thanks,” to an offer to join his honors writing program.

Over the course of the semester, he had been more than a little impressed with my writing, work ethic, and insight into the texts. I was especially impressed with myself in light of the fact that this affirmation came from an instructor who wasn’t exactly lavish with his praise.

In fact, I remember him getting so frustrated during what was supposed to be a class discussion one day that he slammed his book shut, stomped back to his desk, and yelled to everyone over his shoulder, ”Get the f*** out of my class and don’t come back until you can bring it upon yourselves to actually read the f***ing assignment.”

I wasn’t in Kansas anymore, but I didn’t think I was in a Samuel L. Jackson movie.

The scraping of zippers and screeching of desk legs on linoleum were the only sounds brave enough to challenge the awkward silence.

I was gingerly putting my book into my bag when Dr. Wiemelt said something like, “Jathan and Claire, you can stay. I would be more than happy to discuss the text with two freshman who actually cares enough about academia, themselves, and the bedraggled remains of society to come prepared for class.”

I stayed, of course. I don’t think I had a choice.

The discussion went very well, as did everything else in his class that semester.

I kept working hard and Dr. Wiemelt kept giving me useful feedback on my rough drafts. The end of the term found me having aced everything he dished out.

Dr. Wiemelt was just thrilled with my success. Much more thrilled than I was, apparently.

Convinced that, under the right tutelage, I would become the next Tom Wolfe, Dr. Wiemelt gleefully invited me to his honors writing program in which I would be offered richer texts to analyze, more feedback on my work, and an opportunity to write twice as much material.

To my everlasting shame, I said, “No, thanks. It sounds like too much work”.

His slightly disgusted facial expression seemed to say: And I finally thought I found a freshman with a clue. Even so, come Lord Jesus.

Incidentally, I looked him up as I was writing this piece and found that not only is he still teaching English at my alma mater, according to student reviews, he’s still dropping F-bombs in class.

It’s probably not a good idea to have him as a guest lecturer in my junior high English class. The more I think about it…nevermind.

I walked out of Dr. Wiemelt’s office that day and straight into twenty years of underachievement as a writer.

I made “B”’s in the rest of my college English classes by putting forth the least amount of effort possible. I started a blog in 2008 that I abandoned after six months. And not once did I entertain the idea of respecting the writing craft enough to actually hone my talent.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I did think about it once.

The IDEA Of Being a Writer

Ten years after freshman English, I got another chance to give the Heisman to my calling as a writer. It happened one day while shooting basketball alone at my health club.

By this time, I had gotten married, lived in three cities, and was starting a church in a town in which I knew not a soul. Baby number one would come along less than a year later.

Having the court to myself, I was working on my drop step, and, ever the inefficient multitasker, simultaneously piping an episode of The Accidental Creative podcast through my earbuds. (It’s funny, those white, Apple earbuds haven’t changed much since 2008.)

I had worked up a pretty decent lather by the time special guest Steven Pressfield issued a statement that swatted me three rows deep.

“Lots of people like the idea of being a writer. But few have the commitment to actually write,” Pressfield said.

The War of Art author explained that “wannabees” have it in their mind that writing is about capturing this mystical moment in which you sit at your desk, wait for the stars to align, and effortlessly bang out a bestseller. You then take a portion of your royalties and buy a yacht on which you glide through yet another bestseller between afternoon naps somewhere in the Caribbean.

But being an actual writer, Pressfield went on to say, is quite different. It’s hard work. It’s showing up every day. It’s putting in the work whether you feel like it or not. Further, it’s doing the work in the absence of anything close to financial compensation commensurate with tears and time invested.

Overstating it like only he can, Pressfield concluded, “Art is war. And war is hell.”

Up to that point, I had been falling in like with the idea of writing again. Deep down, though, I knew the veteran author was right.

Writing was costly and I wanted to spend the currency of my effort on other things.

I retrieved the wayward ball, put my back to the basket and told Steve, “No thanks. It sounds like too much work.” Turning over my left shoulder, I banked one off the glass and didn’t think much about writing again for ten years.

Too Busy Living

Ironically though, that decade following my breakup with Steven Pressfield did wonders for my writing although I hardly penned a word.

I was too busy living.

Among others things, I:

• started a church
• had four children
• lived in three different cities
• taught public school
• raised a sick child
• and experienced that little thing they call the dark night of the soul.

These paths I tread between 2006–2016 plumbed the very depths of my emotions on either side of the joy-despair spectrum. I took up permanent residence outside of my comfort zone which caused me to stumble upon a plethora of new skills.

And, of course, all along the way I failed.

I failed spectacularly, publicly, and repeatedly.

All these experiences, both good and bad, were a net gain for me as a writer, however, because they were a net gain for me as a person.

After all, isn’t that that what writing is, being a person on a page?

This is something us late-bloomer-writers can take solace in.

It’s true that those of us who come to the writing game later in life have an underdeveloped craft. However, it’s not inconceivable to think that what we lack in skill, we make up for in battle scars, tears, and triumphs.

In fact, best selling author David Shenk says in The Genius in All of Us, “In some fields, the wisdom that accompanies age is an asset that cannot be accrued any other way.”

I believe writing is one of those fields.

Perhaps this is why a New York magazine and book editor told him, “You know, it’s interesting, the best writers at age twenty-five are very rarely among the best writers at age fifty.”

My point here is not to glorify procrastination. In fact, I hope my children learn from my mistakes and pounce on their creative pursuits at a much earlier age than me.

However, at the same time, midlife is not a time to cede what we might have been to those who got a better start than us. In fact, it’s probably time that you finally did something about that white flag of yours.

That’s right have you a little ceremony.

Lower the blasted thing, toss it into the fire pit in your backyard, and offer it up as a sacrifice to the next few decades of effortful growth that you’re going to commit to.

I’m glad I did. Finally.

I MUST Write

You never know what kind of conversation you’ll get sucked into in a faculty copy room.

Shockingly, you might even find yourself in one that has a positive impact on your life.

One day, as I was hole-punching worksheets that fraudulently claimed to articulate transitive verbs so clearly that an eighth-grader could understand, I stumbled into an existential conversation that gave me a third chance at writing.

Leaning against the copier as it rhythmically ate into her precious monthly quota, one of my colleagues announced that she’d only a few short years until retirement.

Banging on the hole punch a little harder than I intended, I replied, “Oh yeah? What are you going to do with yourself once you leave this place?”

Her response punched me in the gut.

“I want to write,” she said.

The hum of the machine faded into the background. I punched and sorted my papers as an automaton. Time became non-linear, and I, once again, was sitting across from Dr. Wiemelt and his laser-beam eyes.

Then, again, the scene changed and there I was ducking under an imaginary defender as  Steven Pressfield’s bludgeoned me with his tough-love commentary.

Some believe there is a universal significance in things coming to us in threes. So much so that they’ve given the concept its own name, The Law of Three. 

I don’t know about all of that, but I do know that there was something different the third time writing called my name.

As I walked back to class I said to myself: Yeah, I WANT to write.

On the drive home from school later that day it was pretty hard to block out the heated banter in the back seat between my two sons over which one got cheated most egregiously in his allotment of Cheez-its.

Nevertheless, that burning in my chest powered through and by the time I pulled into my driveway I said to myself: Yeah, I SHOULD write.

A month later I posted my first piece, a memoir about my pastoral burnout experience. The article not only helped me untangle some of my own emotional baggage but also touched far more readers than I ever imagined.

Therefore, some twenty years after my conversation with Dr. Wiemelt, scrolling through more than twenty comments left on my first blog post, I finally said to myself: Okay. I MUST write.

That was two years ago and I haven’t stopped writing since.

If I ever do, hunt me down, duct tape me to the chair, and tell me I’ll never see my precious french press again unless I deliver a 2,000-word piece by noon.

Find a Way to Feel Alive

The Big Five publishers aren’t banging down my door, none of my articles have gone viral, and the closest I’ve come to owning a yacht has been taking a pontoon ride through the sweltering, mosquito-infested, south Louisiana bayou.

But I have stayed consistent with my blog, written for a few magazines, and worked on my craft almost every single day.

All the while, in the back of my mind, sits an incubator, and inside the incubator grows a dream goal of being published and seeing my ideas expand in scope and influence someday.

I hope to travel the world and help people sort the jumbled wiring of their hearts and minds by offering a glimpse into my own tangled and spliced mess.

And in so doing, I will have used my gift to brighten up this place, if only a little.

This goal of mine is not small, I know.

In fact, the statistics tell me I’m a fool for even trying. I probably am.

But forty years on this big ball of dirt and flesh and blue skies have taught me that realization of a goal is not really the point anyway.

Pursuit is.

It’s the pursuit of your gift that makes you feel alive, not the trophies, not the money, not the statues.

And in midlife, finding a way to feel alive is a lot more important than finding a way to feel immortal.