Yes, I am a pirate, two hundred years too late
The cannons don't thunder, there's nothin' to plunder
I'm an over-forty victim of fate
Arriving too late, arriving too late
– A Pirate Looks at Forty, Jimmy Buffett
So. I’m fifty today. I almost ended this post right here and called it a day, but I suppose on a major life milestone – more road behind me than ahead of me, and the miles piling up on the odometer – some reflection is called for. If you’re only here for the books, I’ll put the book news first: Dig Two Graves, the next Daniel Faust novel, is in the thick of editing and we’re aiming to release it in two months. Specifically we’re aiming for late April, the anniversary of the day the very first book in the series, The Long Way Down (my first professionally published book) was released back in 2014. That’s the intent, we’ll see how editing goes and how much more work the story needs before it’s ready for prime time.
Yep, I’ve been in this business for ten years and somehow I’m not dead yet. Even have all my original teeth and fingers. A few more scars, but that’s fine; scars make for good stories.
Ten years ago today, I had my fortieth birthday in a hotel room, all alone, and seriously contemplated ending my life. I was convinced that I’d never amount to anything, that all my dreams were dying or dead, and there wasn’t any reason to stick around. But I always wanted, more than anything, to be a writer. So I made a deal with myself: I’d make one more good, hard push, put everything I had into it, and then I’d decide. But not until I gave it all the fuel left in the tank. Not until I was sure.
Today, on my fiftieth, I’m looking back at over twenty novels and thousands upon thousands of great reviews. I’ve had the privilege of working with some of the best editors, cover artists and audiobook narrators in the industry. My works have been translated into other languages and published in places I’ve never been. And I get to do this for a living. This thing I love, writing stories and making readers happy, and I get paid for it.
(I mean, not a lot, anyone who tells you all writers are rich is trying to sell you a course or something, but I get my bills paid more or less on time.)
Let me be 100% clear: getting published and selling books didn’t fix the things that made me want to die. Understanding that I needed help, help I couldn’t give myself, and reaching out for it, did. And as a result, ten years after that awful night, I have no intention of dying. I want to stay as long as I can. I have books to write. And the darkness still claws its way in sometimes, it always will, that’s just the nature of the beast that is depression, but now I have tools to fight back.
So if you’re in that same leaky boat: look, your life belongs to you, do what you want, but if you're thinking about giving up, I'm begging you to take my example to heart. Things can get better. Things can change. And if you check out early, you can't change your mind and take it back. That’s a one-way trip. Better to stick around and see what happens. Things can get better. I’m living proof.
Here I am, fifty. And alone again on my birthday, but that’s not a problem. I’m burning toward the finish line on a very special project; when you’re a writer, deadlines come before cake. (And when you’re a spy—wait, sorry, Burn Notice flashback.)
It’s so weird to think that people used to retire at 55. Oh, for my younger readers: "retirement" is an antiquated concept where people would cease working and live their last years in repose, coasting on a lifetime of accumulated wealth, probably living in a house that they bought with a single income. Some people even had these things called "pensions," where their old job would pay them until they died. I know, it sounds too incredible to be true, but you can look it up!
Jokes aside, I would never retire even if I could. Writing is my heart-work, and I fully intend to croak at my keyboard, hopefully after writing a hundred more books. Eh, let’s make it two hundred. Might as well go for it.
The strange thing is, I don’t feel old. I feel like I always have, only with more experience. Sure, sometimes I pull a muscle putting my socks on – or when the wind blows in the wrong direction – but I can walk for miles and I’m a pretty good shot. Reflexes slow as you age, but not that badly, at least from where I’m standing: I enjoy the occasional video game after work, and while I’ll never be anything close to a pro gamer, I wasn’t that good when I was twenty either. I can still hold my own in a mean boss fight.
I say this because I suspect many of my readers are younger than me (I mean, that’s just statistics) and you might be worried about getting older. Just like paying taxes, we all have to do it and it sucks for everybody. But it’s okay. It’s not great, but it’s okay.
Besides, you can do some things to help keep your brain in gear. Number one: never, ever, ever let the words “I’m too old to figure that out” cross your lips. You aren’t. Try to learn something new every day. And screw hustle culture: it doesn’t have to be something useful or productive or make you money, just learn something. Right now I’m taking a class on the Unreal 5 game engine; I have zero interest or intent of going into game coding full-time, I just had a neat idea for a little hobby project and I want to see if I can pull it off.
So, that’s it. I’m fifty, and it’s fine. I would give the experience three stars on Yelp: not great, could be so much worse. Also, I’ve come to a very important realization that will be my guiding star going forward: this isn’t the December of my life, but it is my October. And do you know what means?
Year-round spooky season and Halloween never ends, let’s go!
