Consider for a moment some of the inexplicable mysteries of the universe. What happened before the Big Bang? Does intelligent life exist on other planets? Why do socks disappear in the dryer?
Then there’s the greatest mystery of all: Where does time go?
I ask this last question because nearly two years of retirement has only added to my befuddlement.
Before I retired, I spent most of my waking hours at the newspaper where I worked. Writing and editing stories. Building pages. Persevering against the erosive toll of deadlines. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my job. But I yearned for what I imagined would be the freedom of life after employment. No interviews. No deadlines. Just hour after unfettered hour to do as I pleased.
I was especially eager for the opportunity to change vocations from journalist to novelist. Several rungs up the evolutionary ladder. I managed to complete two novels over the last decade of my newspaper career, herding words early in the mornings, late in the evenings and on those weekends I didn’t have to go to the office. But my heart raced in anticipation of how much more I could accomplish in retirement. Two novels? Hell. Make it five. With ample time to spare for queries and the opportunity to find a literary agent and publisher who share my passion for my characters and their adventures.
What was I thinking?
Almost two years into retirement, I’m still mired in the sagging middle of my third novel. My quest for traditional publishing feels more quixotic than promising at a time when agents overwhelmed with queries seldom respond with even perfunctory rejections. Don’t get me started on the threat artificial intelligence poses to what should be a strictly human endeavor.
What happened?
I’d love to report I’ve made the most of the additional hours retirement affords for writing and publishing fiction, toiling every bit as diligently on my novel and queries as I previously worked on print journalism. Yeah right. That would be a blatant lie.
I’ve got a few of what I deem good excuses. Most important, I fell in love and married a wonderful woman who endures double duty as my stoic wife and developmental editor. We moved into a beautiful condominium in Palm Springs and savor desert life in both Southern California and western Colorado.
I’ve enjoyed travel to other remarkable locations, among them Italy, Mexico, Bonaire … Kentucky. That’s not to mention the growing number of national parks I’ve visited and crossed off that bucket list.
Despite those welcome distractions, I still enjoy more time to write fiction now than I did before I retired. But I discovered something else: I possess considerably less discipline. No longer faced with limited time to write before and after work, I squander the abundance with which I’ve been blessed. Mostly scrolling through social media posts and scurrying down internet rabbit holes. I rationalize I’m conducting research for my writing. As author Dan Brown noted: “Google is not a synonym for research.”
I’m no less mistaken in my belief writing is a difficult undertaking that requires dedicated blocks of time. More than a casual 30 minutes here or an hour there wedged between other pursuits. Writing can be difficult, no doubt. But I’m frequently astonished by how deep a dive follows once you’re willing to dip your toe into the water.
Worst of all, I know better than to procrastinate. Especially when it comes to writing.
Just like physical fitness, writing requires flexing muscles that otherwise atrophy with neglect. Butts in seats and fingers on keyboards, as my wife and editor admonishes. Then brains in gear. Or in the words attributed to no less a prolific author than Stephen King: “Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.”
As if I needed the reminder, a scrap of paper that’s taped to my desk and appears directly above my computer screen offers this reminder in bold print: “Today is the most precious asset you own — and is the one thing you should truly fear wasting.” As yet another author, Geoffry Chaucer, put it back in the 14th century: “Time and tide wait for no man.”
That applies not only to writing, but also life. I can’t understand how fast my 67 years on earth sped past. In a blink, it seems. I expect the pace to only accelerate. Until one day it doesn’t.
The 17th century English poet Robert Herrick famously warned virgins — and, I presume, everyone else — to make much of time: “Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that blooms today tomorrow will be dying.”
That’s the moral of the story, isn’t it? And what should be more than sufficient inspiration. To craft novels and stories and poems and blogs. To compose heartfelt love letters and thank-you notes. To dispatch emails and texts.
It’s a privilege to gather rosebuds whether they’re proverbial or literal. To make much of time. Even in retirement. Especially in retirement.
That’s because the greatest mystery remains unexplained. None of us knows where time goes. Or, for that matter, how much we have left.