Two of the women in my group of six aspiring writers are beginning to be successful. They have each published a number of short stories in a magazine, and they have each been asked by the publisher to write a full length book; either a novel or a collection of short stories.
We, the others, the other four, are excited for them. Excited and a little jealous.
I, being the oldest, am probably the least jealous. My vista of challenging opportunities is sinking behind the horizon, and I am gradually getting at peace with it.
Had I really had the talent and the drive I would have been somewhere else at this moment. But I am not, and that is alright.
We cannot all leave an imprint on history. In fact, only people of the stature of Aristotle can.
And I am no Aristotle.
I am just me: here today and gone tomorrow.