Sitting in my backyard on a beautiful Sunday evening, staring at the trees that lurk over me and the clear blue sky behind them, I melt into my chair and think about what I’ve made out of this life so far.
I graduated from college. I got really into shape then really out of shape then really into shape again. I wrote hundreds of thousands of words, some of which can be found in books.
I’ve done big-boy jobs despite a little-boy skillset. I’ve made lots of friends.
These are defining pieces of my life. Of course, not all the moments can define you.
These days, I feel little definement, yet few questions to ponder.
I’m not sad. I’m not lost. I’m not looking for something I can’t find.
But I’m not excited. It’s been the same for too long. Something needs to change.
My days on the road are exhausting, exciting, depressing, and fulfilling. I am certainly in over my head yet no one seems to care that much.
I guess that’s a good thing. But it doesn’t make me feel good.
On off days, I bury myself in other things. I golf extensively (this is not a complaint). I eat too much sugar. I drink too many Trulys (and not enough La Croix). I sulk into myself to see what happens.
To be honest, nothing happens. That’s sometimes very nice. The quiet of a drifting mind and the beauty of a musical composition hit home in a way only really possible while a little high.
What should I be doing, though? Writing. Writing a lot.
I’ve written this story before. I need to be writing more. I’ve known this for months.
I used to be prolific. Not too long ago.
In 2021, I published two books in eight months and wrote freelance about the stock market. I grew my Medium account to a level I was so proud of, even though it netted no more than $40 a month.
I eventually quit the freelance gig to tour manage a band. What a switch-up.
But I needed to do it. I thought my editors didn’t like my writing. I was shocked they kept giving me work.
Then I spent three hours with my soon-to-be employers in a coffee shop not too far from my house. I left that meeting with a new job — and checked my phone to see what I missed.
“Congrats, Dylan! You’re getting your own newsletter!” What the fuck?
My editors didn’t hate me. They just didn’t say “good job” enough. They valued me higher than most of the other writers at the company.
And I quit. I don’t regret it at all.
But I sometimes wonder if I need to go back to spending my days like that.
I wasn’t having fun while writing full-time; I didn’t know how.
In less than two years on the road, I’ve learned how to fit in in places I don’t feel quite right. I don’t feel out of place in many scenarios. I understand the world a lot better.
That can be accredited to going out in the world. I’ve done that a lot more the past 16 months. I’m about to go to Europe.
And as I’m in Europe, I’ll be collecting the experiences and the memories required to become a great writer someday. But for now, I’ll just spend my off days wasted with few words typed.