Oh, how I envy those writers who can produce a kick-ass debut novel by the age of 25, before they give birth and after they earn an MFA in creative writing (or even more enviable, with no formal training at all).

I envy their determination to reach their goals. I envy their focus on doing whatever it takes to live their dream. I envy the disarming fact that they knew, early in their lives, that they were a writer. When those writers read books, they didn’t just say “I love that book!”, they understood that there was a person behind the book, and set about doing the work to become one of those people.

Yes, I envy those young writers.

But, those writers and their “old souls”, and their big stories – seemingly impossible for such a young person to be capable of telling (until they do)… their window features at the local bookseller… those writers take nothing away from my own process. They do not diminish the success that I will have now.

Now that I have raised two kids and half-raised a third. Now that I am the oldest woman in the room at many of my social group gatherings. Now that I have the time, and the experiences, and the understanding that I, too, am a writer.

I will not sit with my envy. I will simply write.