This week, a friend sent me a picture of a diorama his son had done for a school project. It showed a scene from one of this writer friend’s short stories. Now, I don’t have to tell you the cuteness that this exudes. I’m pretty sure neither of my sister’s boys has ever done a diorama from one of my stories. It almost makes me want to have kids just to make them do a report on one of my books. (Almost.)
“That story seems so long ago,” my friend texted.
I tried to do the math. “When did you write that? Seven years ago?”
He confirmed it had been published in 2011, which to me means that yes, he must’ve written it in 2010. Seven years. It seems to be such a short time—and yet eons.
Seven years ago, my nephews were ten and seven, respectively. The younger was playing baseball and basketball every weekend, and that hasn’t changed much—he just does it while standing over six feet tall now. My sister-in-law’s kids were just moving out of the toddler stage, not even in school yet. They had yet to develop their Minecraft-loving, arts-and-crafts making personalities. Seven years ago: I’m not even sure I knew who my niece and nephews were at that point. Their identities hadn’t quite started to shine.
Seven years ago, I was at a crossroads in my writing career, my humor columnist days at an end, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue pursuing humor or maybe switch to a different genre. I was dabbling in scary short stories, occasionally selling a few, wondering if this was where my future lay. (Seven years later, I still can’t be sure.) It was around this time that I listened to an author I respected immensely talk about buying his domain name: his advice was to buy it before you established your career, because it would be harder and more expensive down the road. I trusted him and took his advice, purchasing this very website the next day. I remember thinking, So what the heck do I do with this now? Because I had no other content to fall back on, I started writing a weekly humor blog to fill the web pages.
Over time, I’ve met a lot of authors, but seven years ago, I knew none of the writers that I consider my closest friends now. I can’t imagine my life without them—touching base, throwing a story their way for feedback and doing the same for them in return, phone conversations lamenting and laughing over this crazy, frustrating, wonderful business. My writer friends keep me sane. How lonely I must’ve been seven years ago!
And finally, there’s the everyday things. I’m pretty sure I was plucking my eyebrows back then, but I don’t think I was eyeballing and plucking my chin yet. I think I was still dyeing my hair for fun—highlights are cool!—and not out of necessity. Let me go back even further in time. I have a clear memory of coming home after my first semester of college, and being stunned at my father’s hair: he’d gone almost completely white in the course of three months. He’d been forty-four. Last week, I was in a public bathroom with alarmingly bright fluorescence, and swept my fingers through my bangs, gasping. I had a shock of white peeking out. Once I dried my tears and made a mental note to buy better hair dye, I realized how powerful genetics really are: I was three months into my forty-fourth year. I’d turned into my dad. (Then I checked my teeth in the mirror, thus simultaneously turning into my mother at the exact same time.)
So yeah, my friend there whose son did the diorama is right: seven years does seem like so long ago. I can barely remember life back then. (I remember my naturally golden curls, and FYI, I miss you.) But here’s the nice thing: with time, you forget. Life may well have been pretty darn wonderful back then. But I can’t quite remember. And that makes me appreciate now even more.
Side note to my niece and nephew on Jason’s side: My Mom, MS, and a Sixth-Grade Mess would make a GREAT diorama. Just saying.
“That story seems so long ago,” my friend texted.
I tried to do the math. “When did you write that? Seven years ago?”
He confirmed it had been published in 2011, which to me means that yes, he must’ve written it in 2010. Seven years. It seems to be such a short time—and yet eons.
Seven years ago, my nephews were ten and seven, respectively. The younger was playing baseball and basketball every weekend, and that hasn’t changed much—he just does it while standing over six feet tall now. My sister-in-law’s kids were just moving out of the toddler stage, not even in school yet. They had yet to develop their Minecraft-loving, arts-and-crafts making personalities. Seven years ago: I’m not even sure I knew who my niece and nephews were at that point. Their identities hadn’t quite started to shine.
Seven years ago, I was at a crossroads in my writing career, my humor columnist days at an end, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue pursuing humor or maybe switch to a different genre. I was dabbling in scary short stories, occasionally selling a few, wondering if this was where my future lay. (Seven years later, I still can’t be sure.) It was around this time that I listened to an author I respected immensely talk about buying his domain name: his advice was to buy it before you established your career, because it would be harder and more expensive down the road. I trusted him and took his advice, purchasing this very website the next day. I remember thinking, So what the heck do I do with this now? Because I had no other content to fall back on, I started writing a weekly humor blog to fill the web pages.
Over time, I’ve met a lot of authors, but seven years ago, I knew none of the writers that I consider my closest friends now. I can’t imagine my life without them—touching base, throwing a story their way for feedback and doing the same for them in return, phone conversations lamenting and laughing over this crazy, frustrating, wonderful business. My writer friends keep me sane. How lonely I must’ve been seven years ago!
And finally, there’s the everyday things. I’m pretty sure I was plucking my eyebrows back then, but I don’t think I was eyeballing and plucking my chin yet. I think I was still dyeing my hair for fun—highlights are cool!—and not out of necessity. Let me go back even further in time. I have a clear memory of coming home after my first semester of college, and being stunned at my father’s hair: he’d gone almost completely white in the course of three months. He’d been forty-four. Last week, I was in a public bathroom with alarmingly bright fluorescence, and swept my fingers through my bangs, gasping. I had a shock of white peeking out. Once I dried my tears and made a mental note to buy better hair dye, I realized how powerful genetics really are: I was three months into my forty-fourth year. I’d turned into my dad. (Then I checked my teeth in the mirror, thus simultaneously turning into my mother at the exact same time.)
So yeah, my friend there whose son did the diorama is right: seven years does seem like so long ago. I can barely remember life back then. (I remember my naturally golden curls, and FYI, I miss you.) But here’s the nice thing: with time, you forget. Life may well have been pretty darn wonderful back then. But I can’t quite remember. And that makes me appreciate now even more.
Side note to my niece and nephew on Jason’s side: My Mom, MS, and a Sixth-Grade Mess would make a GREAT diorama. Just saying.
Here's my sister and me in 2010 on the left, and 2017 on the right. Thanks a bunch, Dad.
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