Earlier this year, I turned forty.
I’ll give you a moment to choose between “crap I’ve been listening to an out-of-touch old dude who looks younger than he is” and “crap, I’ve been listening to a ponderously self-important kid whose picture I never bothered to look at.”
Forty is an milestone in the middle of the uncanny valley of life. At forty, you’re supposed to be silently suffering the mistakes of the previous generation and making mistakes for the next generation to suffer. It’s a time of life to be shutting the hell up and doing Real Things in short.
Some of my old college friends are doing that. And making obscene amounts of money, collecting titles and stuff.
Failing that, it’s a time to be raising kids by way of apology for not doing Real Things (implicitly hinting that your kids will do Real Things, which seems to involve teaching them to play the piano for some reason that has never been entirely clear to me).
Many more of my old friends are doing that. Clearly, the next generation will not suffer from a lack of piano players.
Forty is not an ideal age to be blogging. Because it’s not an age anyone is particularly eager to hear from. At twenty-five, you’ve got inspiring dreams and ideals to share. At fifty, you’ve got complete stories to tell and lessons to convey. At forty, if you’re not overworked and too busy to blog, you’re just a distraction for everybody.
As far as I know, none of my old friends is blogging. One is a journalist, but that’s different.