In 1988, when I was in my serious Anglophile phase and deep in the music of the new British Invasion, Julia Fordham, one of my favorite British singers, released a self-titled CD (For Six Degrees of Separation trivia buffs, a young Caron Wheeler sang backup on this CD before she blew up with Soul II Soul, who sang – you guessed it – Back to Life.). One of the hits from the Julia Fordham CD was Where Does the Time Go.
Flash ahead fourteen years. January 2002, in my thirty-sixth year on earth, I’d had it with being an intellectual sharecropper, tilling everybody’s field but my own and swore that by the time I was forty, I would be living my life as a writer. In the interim, I diligently pursued the dream, got a book deal, and published two decent-selling books. So, I asked myself, at 12:01 am, on December 27, 2006, when I officially entered my fourth decade, why was I still working for The Man instead of being able to support myself as a writer like I’d wanted?
To read the rest, check out my January 14th post at Blogging in Black (ain't I a tease?)...
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