Moving Targets

My life has been going great.  This month alone, I’ve accomplished a lot.  I couldn’t fix my old car, so I bought a new one.  I learned to drive a stick-shift in the span of half a day.  I’m no longer mopeding around like some college hipster; instead I’ve skipped a step entirely on gone strait to mid-life-crisis car.  Gosh, I hope that doesn’t mean I’m dying at sixty.

death of the Dragon…

…birth of the Serpent.

I published my first book online.  I can actually tell people I am a published author and not just an aspiring one.  Sure I’ve only sold enough copies to cover somewhere between a dinner for two at Olive Garden and half a ticket to see Book of Mormon… but people have bought my book.  People have spent time out of their lives reading what I have to say.

But now that it’s done– it’s done.  I used to lie awake in bed thinking about this moment.  The moment I’m driving again as a published author.  Now that I am in this moment, there’s an emptiness.  It’s not that it isn’t satisfying, it’s that satisfaction has already worn off and I am inventing new targets for further down the line.  Why am I still dating, when people way stupider and uglier than me are already married and popping out kids?  I need to get into a marriage-worthy relationship.  I’ve only sold my book to friends and family… I need to get strangers to read it.  I need to hike more, and eat salads, and get into better shape.  I need to write another book…

I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with what my life has given me.  And I think I’m okay with that.