The first story I ever wrote was about a mad professor who built a time machine and recovered items from different time periods within his own lifetime to do something or other, I forget the specifics. I loved that story and I was so proud of it, I wrote it when I was 8 or 9 years old. Looking back I point to that story as the first time I realised how much I love to write but that’s not strictly true. I loved writing that story and I was so proud of the result but I didn’t write another story until I was at uni, that’s about ten years later.
It amazes me that it could take me that long to realise what I wanted to do with my life and what I love more than anything else, the answer was there all along in that story I wrote all those years ago. I love to write but it took me a long time to work that out, to work out who I am and what I want.
It always seemed stupid to me when people would say that’s what I wanted all along deep down I just never knew it, I always thought surely if you know anyone it’s yourself but that’s just not the case. Sometimes we seem to understand everyone but ourselves. We can see clearly what others should do but have no idea about our own situation. When I realised that I realised that I have to be patient with people who seem to be being almost willfully blind to what they need to do. That I have to try to point them in the right direction and give them time to get there.
I reckon it’s like information overload, we know everything about ourselves but there is so much complexity there that we can’t see what’s important through all the minutiae, all the mundane little details but our friends and our family who know us well, who have far less information than we do, they know just enough to see the answer.