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.
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.