I'm 33 ... who knows where I'll be when I'm 43? 53? 63? Look at somebody like Chuck Jones or Charles Schultz, when it comes to artwork, or Rex Stout when it comes to writing ... their careers all span lifetimes. Assuming nobody drops a piano on me, I've still got a long road ahead. Most people don't do their magnum opus until they're middle-aged or older -- chances are, my magnum opus, whatever it turns out to be, isn't even a glimmer in my eye yet. Or some little germ of an idea I have now may blossom into greatness someday, who knows? The future is infinite in possibility.
This is something that's easy to forget, when I'm focusing on the task du jour. All the effort I've poured into Suburban Jungle may turn out to be just the training ground for my real work ... after all the fretting I've done the past week (and the past seven years) about Michael Macbeth, he may end up being just a footnote in my life's story -- there's no way for me to tell!
I once read that life can only be lived forwards, and only understood backwards. (Unless you're Merlin, living backwards in time, but he was an oddity.) That's something I've got to remember!